


The Blog of Eugenia Watson

by Mad_Lori



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adoption, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Blogging, Diary/Journal, Family, Fluff, Humor, Kid Fic, M/M, Original Character(s), Parenthood, Slash, Teenagers, Unconventional Families
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-06-12
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-20 08:30:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 95,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/210788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Lori/pseuds/Mad_Lori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I like to think of this not so much as a blog but as the first draft of my inevitably best-selling memoirs.  My Life In an Unconventional Family.  How unconventional?  Well, I live with my divorced parents and my dad's husband.  How's that for starters?  Trust me, it gets weirder.</p><p>My name is Eugenia Watson, but you can call me Genie.  I'm sixteen.  This is my life.</p><p>Note:  Work is marked complete for now and is on hiatus, having reached a convenient stopping point.  Additional chapters may be added in the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1 September

**The Blog of Eugenia V. Watson, Ninja Warrior**

 _1 September_

Today I came home from school not in the best of moods. Had an irritating day of classes and I was still rather hacked off at my stepdad because he’s a bloody wanker. But it turned out to be a good night after all. Nothing like coming home to the smell of decomposition to set things to rights.

I’m sure that I’m the only girl in my class who can so quickly and accurately identify the smell of decomposing corpses. Honestly, though, even if you’d never smelled it before, you’d know it. There’s something about it that speaks right to the reptile brain, saying “OMG DEATH RUN BITCH RUN.” Which is why there are very strict rules in our house about the procedures to be followed when there’s been close proximity to rotting corpses. I spent quite a bit of time negotiating these rules. I figure if I’m not allowed to run chemistry experiments in the bathroom, it’s only fair that our flat be kept decomp-free.

Rules that I guess didn’t get followed today. I smelled it the second I walked in the door. “Gah,” was what I said, or something like it. I ran up the stairs trying to breathe through my mouth.

I flung open the door to our flat. “ _MOTHER!_ I smell dead people!”

I heard hurried footsteps and scuffling and then she came out of the hallway, hair wet from a shower, holding an armful of clothes. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she muttered. “I meant to have these out before you got home.”

“You promised that decomp-y clothes would get left at the lab, because eww.”

“I know, but I…”

“You just had another smelly one two days ago and you haven’t had a chance to wash the clothes you keep at work to change into, so you couldn’t change at the lab today.”

My mother arched one eyebrow at me. “If you already knew the reason, you could cut me some slack.”

“Hey, I had a reason for being half an hour late for curfew last week and I still got in trouble for it.”

She smirked. “Fair enough. I’ll just take these down to the laundry.”

“I’ll get the incense.” A little Nag Champa and a few open windows, usually that does the trick as long as the offending clothes haven’t been left to…steep.

The door to the adjoining flat next door opened and my stepfather came swanning in. I can’t really describe how he walks except to say that he always looks like there’s an invisible cloak billowing out behind him. He wrinkled his nose. “Oh dear. Is that Eau de Corpse I smell, Grace?” he called after my mother.

“Oh, stuff it, Sherlock,” she yelled up the stairs as she disappeared into the basement.

“Where’s John?” Sherlock asked me.

“I don’t know.”

He frowned. “But you always know.”

“He’s your husband.”

“I don’t have a psychic link with him.”

“Neither do I. Text him and ask him.”

“I did. He didn’t answer.”

“Did you wait longer than five seconds? Of course you didn’t.” As if on cue, Sherlock’s mobile buzzed. He frowned at it.

“Oh. He’s stopped off at Tesco.”

“Gee. There’s something we could never have worked out on our own.”

“I see you’re still angry with me.”

I know what you’re thinking. Wicked stepfather, teenage rebellion, see how she resists this new person intruding into her broken home, destroying all her hopes for her parents’ reconciliation. Bugger all that. Just about every bit of that clichéd narrative is wrong in my case. I absolutely adore Sherlock and always have, because he isn’t wicked (well, not in the traditional sense) and he isn’t new, he’s been around my whole life, and my home is not broken, it works just fine thank you very much. And my parents don’t need to reconcile, they get along great. They’re just not married to each other anymore.

It’s because I love Sherlock that I’m still hacked off at him. Yesterday I competed in the London Chess Classic. Not the juniors division, the regular tournament. I’m the youngest player in the field by three years. I may be pants at maths and I bloody hate history but when it comes to chess, I am not remotely to be fucked with. I just broke 2400 on my Elo rating. I only need to win a few more tournaments in a strong field and I’ll be an international master. The London Classic was a step towards that. I didn’t expect to actually win (and I didn’t) but I finished strong and bumped up my rating.

So yesterday was a pretty big deal. Everyone came. Mum and Dad, and Aunt Adele, and the rest of the Legion of Aunts and Uncles. Nana Hudson, Nana and Grandpa Pepperidge, and Metsy and Zack, and everybody in the world who means anything to me was there. Even two of my favorite teachers came. Everybody in my life who matters. Everybody except Sherlock, the man who first sat me across a chess board when I was four years old, who got me a coach and convinced Mum and Dad to let me play in competition. He was supposed to be there and he promised me he’d be there and guess what, he didn’t show up. His job distracted him, like it always does, and after sixteen years you’d think I’d be used to it. I am, in a way, but what I’m not used to even now is that look of heartbreak on my dad’s face because Sherlock had disappointed me again, and somehow he feels like that’s his fault. I’ll never get used to that, because of everybody in the whole wide world I love my dad the most of all.

And now here he was all, gee, you’re still mad. I just went on lighting the incense.

“If it’s any consolation, your father’s not really speaking to me right now.”

“No, that isn’t any consolation.” I turned around. “I guess we all just get a bit tired of waiting for you to remember you have a family.”

“John has a family. I’m just…here.” My mouth dropped open. I didn’t know what to say, so I just smacked him on the shoulder, hard. “Ow!” he exclaimed, like a little kid, rubbing his arm. “What was that for?”

“For being an idiot! You don’t get to opt out of being my father!”

“I’m not your father.”

“The hell you’re not! Who gave me the sex talk when Dad was too mortified to do more than stammer? Who gave me the _real_ drugs talk after Mum gave me the sanitized version? Who taught me every back alley in London and how to tie a slipknot and make batteries out of potatoes for the science fair?” I was getting teary. I hate that. But this was important. “You played the violin for me when I couldn’t sleep from nightmares. You did all the voices when you read me books. So don’t tell me we’re not family, Sherlock. Okay?”

He looked a little shamefaced. “It wasn’t my intention to deny it, Genie.” The thing is, I knew that it wasn’t. The problem was not that Sherlock doesn’t consider us family. It was that he still, after all this time, isn’t quite used to the idea that we’d want to consider _him_ family.

I was done being mad. I flung my arms about him and hugged him hard. Sherlock’s hugs aren’t like Dad’s. Dad’s are snuggly and fluffy and warm and cozy. Sherlock’s are more like being enveloped by some kind of many-legged creature, all bony bits. But he wrapped his arms around my shoulders and squeezed me and it still felt pretty brilliant. I felt his hand on the back of my head, which fit perfectly right under his chin. “I really did mean to be there,” he said, quietly.

“I know.”

“John said you did very well.”

“Third place. Got another fifteen rank points.”

“Good girl. Did you beat that idiot Reichmann?”

I smiled against his shirt. “In forty-two moves.”

“You’ve got your notes, I presume.”

“Sure. You want to see them?”

“Naturally.”

I heard something and we both looked up. My dad was standing in the doorway into 221b, watching us.

I held out my hand. “C’mon, Dad. I forgave him, now you have to.”

He walked over and stood next to us for a moment. “Did he apologize to you?” he asked me. He was ignoring Sherlock, who was watching his face with a sort of sad-puppy look on his own. The many people who accuse him of being an emotionless bastard with no heart have never seen how gone he is on my father.

“Sort of. In a way.”

Dad shook his head. “I guess that’ll have to do.” I reached out and pulled him into the hug. Sherlock started to back away but Dad didn’t let him. “Nope. Your punishment for being an arsehole is more hugging.”

Sherlock fetched a big, showy sigh. “You’re diabolical, the both of you.”

“I take after my father,” I said.

Dad kissed my forehead. “Which one?”

So things got a tad chaotic after that. Mum came upstairs and cooed over us a bit, which I suppose we were sort of asking for being all group-huggy, then Sherlock remembered why he’d been looking for Dad in the first place (which involved tobacco spit, don’t ask), then some reporter called wanting to talk to me about my chess rating. I think he’d been hoping for one of those child-prodigy stories, but sixteen is nearly grown up and I guess it isn’t as exciting if the kid isn’t playing chess while drinking out of a sippy cup. Mum and I scavenged for leftovers for dinner. I went over to 221b to see if I could get in on this tobacco spit action – had to be some mysterious clue involved there -- but instead got a big eyeful of Dad and Sherlock snogging on their couch.

Not the kind of spit I was hoping for. Ha! I kill me. Thank you, I’ll be here all week.

This blogging thing is exhausting. How does Dad do it? His entries are ten times this length and he puts in all these crazy details from their cases. All this just happened two hours ago and I’m already fuzzy on the exact words that were said. Some of the dialogue above may be paraphrased, I confess, although I definitely remember every word I yelled at Sherlock about being my father.

I think I’m all in for the night, then. Metsy’s going to call any minute and moan about her poetry class. Trust me, you don’t want me blogging about that.


	2. 4 September

**The Blog of Eugenia V. Watson, The Sausage King of Chicago**

_4 September_

I swore I was going to update this thing every day. Then suddenly it’s three days later. Whoosh, days are gone. You could almost think it was a time warp. I hear it’s just a jump to the left, and then a step to the right.

To be fair, I have been dealing with a Crisis of Epic Proportions. Metsy (that’s my best friend Metrona – do not, whatever you do, ask her about her name) snuck over to the house last night in a state of high dudgeon because she thought she might be pregnant. Now, had she actually been pregnant, “high dudgeon” does not begin to describe the state she would have graduated into.

“You’ve never heard of _birth control?_ ” I said to her when she showed up at the door, a slobbery mess. I snuck her up to my room as quietly as I could, although I knew it was probably hopeless. Mum and Sherlock were working in her office and Metsy does have a tendency to stomp when she walks.

“Of course! We use condoms!” she said, honking into a tissue. “But those things aren’t a hundred percent, you know! It can happen!”

“Look, do you want me to get Dad? He could…you know, check.”

She looked at me like I was nuts. “Genie, I don’t want your father giving me a gynecological exam. That’d just be too weird. Besides, he’d probably tell… _him._ ” Metsy went all red. She has a dizzyingly hopeless crush on Sherlock and can barely string two words together when he’s in the room. “Or worse yet he wouldn’t have to. He’d take one look at me and know immediately, as well as knowing what position I like to do it in and which brand of totally useless condoms we use!”

I suppressed the urge to laugh. Metsy was in real distress and this wasn’t a laughing matter. “Listen, I’m gonna go get us some tea, okay?”

She nodded. “Okay.”

I left her with some tissues and my old blankie to snuggle. I did want tea, but that was just a cover. What I really needed was a consult with my mother.

I knocked once and poked my head into her office. She and Sherlock were sitting on opposite sides of her desk, heads bowed, studying some photographs with near-identical expressions of concentration on their faces.

If there are two people in my family who are alike, it is not me and my mother, or me and my father, or my father and mother. It is my mother and Sherlock. Which, I admit, is weird, and brings up suspicions about what my dad found attractive about her to begin with. They are both tall and willowy in a fashion-model sort of way, dress impeccably, and are analytical to the point of driving a person crazy. She’s not quite as quick with the deductions as he is, but if you didn’t have him as a point of comparison you’d think she were some kind of clairvoyant. The big difference is that he’s practical and she’s theoretical.

Actually, my mum and dad met through Sherlock. He knew her first. She’s a forensic anthropologist and they’d worked together on a couple of cases, after which she enjoyed the rare privilege of being judged by him not to be a total idiot. She heard through the grapevine that Sherlock had gotten himself a colleague, and was so amazed by this (as most people are) that she wanted to meet this extraordinary person who could not only work but _live_ with Sherlock without sharp implements being involved, so she arranged to get introduced to this man that I call “Dad,” and there you go.

I don’t remember a whole lot from when we used to live in Shepherd’s Bush, when Mum and Dad were married. I remember our house. I remember hanging out with Sherlock at Baker Street. He’d lived there alone since Dad moved out, and to a little kid who wanted to grow up to be just like him, it was the coolest place in the world. My memories from before age seven are a little fuzzy. Everything changed after my accident. I’m not clear on the details, but after I got out of hospital, I remember Dad being away for a few weeks and I spent a lot of time with Nana and Grandpa Pepperidge. Then Mum and Dad sat me down and told me that we were moving and people were going to have different bedrooms now but nothing would change and I’d still have my parents with me and nobody was going away. So we moved into 219b and there were workmen putting in doors between the two flats and I remember making Sherlock promise to put the same wallpaper back up because I loved that wallpaper. To me, it was just like we were all moving in with Sherlock, and that seemed like the best idea ever. Mum and Dad were both there at dinnertime and breakfast time and to tuck me in at night and it didn’t seem to matter that Dad didn’t sleep in Mum’s bed anymore. I’m still not quite clear on what went on behind the scenes during this transition. Nobody seemed angry or heartbroken, not even my mother, who’d be the one you’d think would have reason for some negative feelings. I’m pretty sure there’s stuff I don’t know about the three of them. Someday I’ll get up the nerve to ask.

One morning about six months after we moved I remember getting up really early and wanting Dad to make me pancakes. Dad makes the best pancakes. Mum’s a terrible cook so I was extra quiet. I didn’t want to wake her up because she might try to cook me pancakes and that wouldn’t end well for anybody. I’d been assuming that Dad slept in his old room at Sherlock’s flat, so I went through to 221b and tiptoed up the stairs, but his old room wasn’t a bedroom anymore, it had a desk and some bookshelves. Then I was confused. Where was my Dad sleeping? I’d have to ask Sherlock. So I went back down to his bedroom and pushed open the door. And no, don’t avert your eyes, I didn’t see anything traumatizing. Just my Dad asleep with his head on Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock had his arm tucked around Dad. Mystery solved. I poked Dad’s arm until he woke up. He took me back to 219 and made me pancakes. Pretty soon everybody was up and there were pancakes all around. And when my dad handed Sherlock his plate, he looked at me, sorta took a deep breath, and kissed him. I said “eww.” And life went on like normal.

Where was I? Got off on a tangent there.

Mum looked up at me when I came into the office. “Just a sec, luv,” she said.

“Do you have aerials of the whole scene?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes.” She dug out some more photographs. “I wish we had infrared, it might reveal where paths have been walked through the underbrush.”

“I might be able to get those. Satellites and such.”

“Is there anybody in the government who doesn’t owe you a favor?”

“If there is, they will someday. Turns out a side benefit of becoming more notorious is that people are starting to do pre-emptive favors for me.” He tapped one of the photos. “Check here. If his pattern holds, this is the most likely location for additional burials.”

Mum nodded. “That’s the conclusion we came to, as well.”

Sherlock got up and looked me up and down. He smirked. “Tell Metrona she isn’t pregnant.”

“What?” Mum exclaimed.

I just gaped. “How did…what do…okay, that’s well creepy, even for you!”

“She’s obviously upstairs, I’d know those thunderous footfalls anywhere. You have a wet spot on your shoulder where she’s been crying on you and she’s obviously snuck out past her curfew. Given the strictness of her parents and her fear of their retribution, there’s precious little that would induce her to engage in such risk-taking, so some crisis severe enough to merit a clandestine visit rather than just a weepy late-night phone call. Either her boyfriend’s dumped her or she’s having a pregnancy scare. You’ve come to ask your mother’s help, which you wouldn’t do if it were boyfriend troubles, so pregnancy it is. Metrona is of the histrionic type, meaning she’d begin to panic if she were only a few days late with her period, which means if she were pregnant conception would have occurred two weeks ago, at which time, if I’m not mistaken, Metrona’s thuggish boyfriend was away on holiday. Since she is too enamored of that imbecile to cheat on him, the logical conclusion is that she is not pregnant.”

“That all sounds very logical,” Mum said. “Except conception dates can’t be pinned down with greater than five or six day’s accuracy, and the boyfriend’s absence can’t rule it out. If he’d been gone for that long so as to exclude it outright, Metsy would have already come to the same conclusion you did, so there’s likely enough wiggle room around his holiday to make her fear it.”

“That proceeds from the assumption that Metrona knows enough about her own cycle and the timing of her ovulations to make that deduction.”

“Hey!” I said. They both turned and looked at me. “I didn’t come here to watch you two play Deduction Wars. Mum, Metsy’s really upset. I don’t know what to do.”

She got up. “Come on, let’s make some tea. You want me to talk to her?”

“No. I just don’t know what to say.”

“Could I talk to her?” Sherlock asked.

Mum and I both looked at him, horrified. “I don’t think ‘no’ is a strong enough word,” I said.

“But it’s interesting! Genie, you’re not prone to these heightened teenage histrionics, I rarely get a chance to observe them.”

“This isn’t research,” I said. “You know Metsy. If you walk in she’ll probably have an aneurysm or something out of sheer embarrassment.”

He flapped a hand. “Her juvenile infatuation with me is irrelevant. I promise to be quiet.”

“No!” Mum and I exclaimed, at the same time.

“But…I’m bored,” he said.

“Go bother Dad,” I said.

Sherlock kicked at the carpet, looking like the world’s tallest five-year-old who’s had enough of summer holidays with nothing to do, thank you very much. “He’s gone round the pub.”

Mum pushed him back towards the desk. “Then look at these photographs and figure out why he buried the feet separately.” She put her hands on his shoulders and sat him down.

Sherlock scowled down at Mum’s crime-scene photographs. “No need to treat me like an obstreperous child,” he muttered.

“I wouldn’t if you didn’t act like one. Now behave, or I might just have to tell John that I caught you with three nicotine patches on the other night.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.” She tapped the side of her nose. She had him there. The nicotine patch issue was actually really serious, and it gave me a bad turn to hear that Sherlock had been wearing three recently. But that’s a story for another blog entry. This one’s already bloating beyond all recognition.

Mum and I left him there and went to the kitchen. She put the kettle on and faced me. “What’s going on, Genie? Is Metsy really pregnant?”

“She thinks she is. She’s all wound up.”

“So her period’s late? How late?”

“Two days.”

Mum relaxed a little. “That’s all? Sweetheart, that could be anything.”

“She swears she’s super regular.”

“That doesn’t rule it out. She’ll have to wait a bit until she can take a pregnancy test.” Mum sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “Does she know about birth control and such?”

That wasn’t what she was really asking, though. “Yes, and so do I, Mum.”

A look of barely-concealed panic came into her eyes. “You’d tell me if you were having sex, wouldn’t you? I haven’t been too awful a mother that you wouldn’t tell me, right?”

“You’ve been a lovely mother and yes, I’d tell you, because I wouldn’t do it without precautions and I’d want to be on the Pill.” I shrugged. “That all assumes the existence of somebody who’d want to have sex with _me._ ”

She shook her head as she poured the tea, not appreciating my attempt at levity. “You’re too young, Eugenia.”

“I’m sixteen and a half.”

“Right. Too young.”

“You sound like Dad now. You’re supposed to be the modern, progressive parent. He’s got the ‘not while I’m alive’ thing well covered.”

“I guess my modern attitudes are a bit tough to keep up when it comes to my baby girl having sex.”

“I’m not having sex! Metsy’s the one being irresponsible, not me!” I threw my hands up. “Guilt by association went out with the Inquisition, didn’t it?”

“It’s just not so easy for your poor parents,” Mum said, clutching her mug in both hands. “Another reminder that you’re not a child anymore. One day you’re toddling about and I blink and look away for one second and suddenly your friends are having sex and thinking they’re pregnant.” She put down the mug and scrubbed her hands on her face. “I just get scared for you.”

She looked like she needed a hug, so I gave her one. She hugged me back, hard. “It’s okay, Mum.”

“Just promise me we’ll talk about it before – well, before.”

“I promise. I’m a bit scared to date anyone seriously, anyhow. Mycroft would probably have him disappeared to Siberia or something.”

I felt her laugh. “Your uncles are a tad protective, aren’t they?”

I laughed, too. “That’s like saying the King’s a tad British, Mum.”

The unmistakable sound of Metsy’s footstep came pounding down the stairs. I pulled away from Mum as she came into the kitchen. Her face was red and puffy, but she was smiling. She frantically motioned me away. I exchanged a quick glance with Mum and let Metsy pull me into the living room. “I got my period,” she whispered.

“Oh, thank God,” I said. She hugged me.

“Did you tell your Mum?” she said, gaspingly. “She might tell mine, and then…”

“It’s okay. I didn’t tell her a thing,” I said. I looked up to where Mum was watching us from around the kitchen doorway. She winked at me. “C’mon, I’ll walk you home.”

“Ah, Metrona,” said Sherlock, swooping out of Mum’s office. “Not pregnant after all, I see?”

Maybe Mum won’t be the one tattling about the nicotine patches.


	3. 6 September

**The Blog of Eugenia V. Watson, License to Kill**

 _6 September_

Okay. I’ve been trying to put it out of my head for days and I can’t.

The nicotine patch thing is really bothering me.

Mum said she’d caught Sherlock with three patches on. I don’t know when this was. But it doesn’t matter because there’s no time when that’s good. Under no circumstances is Sherlock supposed to ever wear more than one at once. Not just because he made a very serious promise to my father (and to me) that he wouldn’t, but because he could die. And that makes me want to shrivel up into a tiny little ball and rock back and forth in the corner.

So I’ve got to write now about something that’s hard for me to think about, but I think maybe it’s time. I’m going to get down as much of it as I can. Maybe this whole writing-as-therapy thing is worth a go. Not that I need therapy! But I guess everyone can do with a little unburdening of the soul from time to time, right?

Okay, here goes. We’ll see how all my English Comp classes in the fancy school my parents send me to have paid off.

About a year ago, Sherlock was on a really intense case. He’d had no sleep for three days, had ingested a totally unreasonable number of these crazy caffeine pills he’d recently discovered, and then he kept putting on nicotine patches until he got up to seven. _Seven._

Dad had just picked me up from my chess master’s house. He went into the kitchen for a sandwich or something and I went over to 221 to see how Sherlock’s case was going.

I found him unconscious on the lounge floor. For a second I was just frozen. I’ll never forget that feeling, that helpless feeling of _ohgodohgodohgod_ and somehow my throat unlocked and I yelled for Dad. He must have heard something in my voice because he came _running,_ and when he saw Sherlock he just pushed me out of the way and got down next to him.

“Genie, call an ambulance,” he said. He was using his Doctor Voice.

“Is he dead?” I heard myself ask him.

Dad had rolled Sherlock over by this time and was checking his pulse. “No, he’s alive. Call, now!” he yelled. Then he was looking under Sherlock’s eyelids, calling his name, trying to get him to wake up, and I don’t remember doing it but I must have called the ambulance.

Sherlock sort of woke up but he was shaking and spasming and he wasn’t all there. Dad was saying “you’re going to be all right, Sherlock, just breathe, relax,” all the while he was holding him still so he wouldn’t hurt himself. The ambulance got there and they put him on the gurney. Dad was telling them about the caffeine pills and the nicotine patches. All I could do was stand there digging my nails into my palms and quietly panicking, not able to do anything to help. They asked Dad if he was coming in the ambulance and he looked at me, and I knew that he desperately wanted to go but he didn’t want to leave me alone. I didn’t want to be left alone, either, but neither did I want Sherlock to be alone in the ambulance.

“You coming or not?” the paramedic said.

Dad grit his teeth. “No, I can’t leave my daughter alone. We’ll follow in a taxi.”

They started out the door and I ran to Dad and he hugged me so tight but I could feel his jaw all clenched and his pulse was so fast and I knew that his heart was on that gurney. “You should go with him,” I said.

“No, Genie, it’s okay. We’ll be right behind.”

“I can get a cab on my own, what if he wakes up and you’re not there?”

Right then, like it was a miracle, Mum showed up. I’m sure it must have given her a bad turn to see an ambulance outside our house but my mother is nothing if not calm in a crisis. She ran into 221b and sized things up in about two seconds. She grabbed me away from Dad and gave him a shove. “Go, hurry.”

“Grace, I shouldn’t…”

“You need to be with your husband, John,” she said, her arms tight so tight around me. “Run, you can still catch them.”

He looked at her, then at me. He kissed me hard on the forehead and touched her on the face and then ran out the door. It hit me all at once, right then, and I just started crying and couldn’t stop. Mum held me and shushed me and told me it would be okay and that Sherlock would be just fine. Once I’d calmed down we got in her car and went to the hospital.

When they finally let us see him, he was awake. He smiled when he saw us. But Dad was mad. Maybe as mad as I’ve ever seen him. I totally got that. I’d seen how scared he was, how long those hours had seemed until the doctors told us Sherlock would be okay and we could go in. I’d spent that time trying to deal with the idea of life without Sherlock and what if he’d died, and how would any of us handle it, and I couldn’t deal with what it would mean for me so I just thought about what it would do to my dad. He’d never get over it. I might joke about it and make fun of them and say “eww” but the truth is that I will feel very lucky if I ever know what it’s like to be in love like they are. And Sherlock had almost taken it away because he needed a little pick-me-up. Of course Dad was mad. I thought of him, and me, having to live the rest of our lives without Sherlock and it made me mad, too.

I couldn’t hang onto it, though. I was just too relieved and happy that he was awake. I ran to his bedside and tried to hug him, which was hard because he was lying down so I ended up just sort of flopping on him with my hands on his shoulders. He couldn’t really hug me either but I felt one of his hands on my back. “Alright, crumpet,” he said. Sherlock has never called me the usual names parents call kids, like luv or darling or sweetheart. Almost all the time he just calls me by my name. But once in a great while he calls me ‘crumpet,’ and I’ve no idea why.

“Alright now,” I said, muffled against his hospital gown. “You’re okay so it’s alright now.” I picked up my head but he wasn’t looking at me, he was looking up at Dad.

“John,” he said. His hand was lifting up a little like he wanted Dad to hold it.

“How many times, Sherlock?” Dad said, and he had that quiet tone that he gets when he’s really, really mad. “How many times have I asked you, ordered you, _begged_ you to be careful with yourself? But no, nothing else matters but the work. No _one_ else matters! No one who’d miss you, no one who couldn’t bear to lose you!”

I had straightened up by then but I stuck by Sherlock’s bedside, hanging on to his other hand. I wasn’t going to jump in and defend him, though. He deserved whatever he got. “I’m – sorry,” he murmured.

“You’re sorry? You’re _sorry?_ ” Dad was getting madder and madder. He loomed over Sherlock and pointed across at me. “Genie found you _unconscious on the floor._ She thought you were dead! _You_ did that to her, Sherlock. Because of your carelessness, our daughter will always have that image in her head, because you are a stubborn bastard and you don’t _listen!_ ” Sherlock reached up and grabbed one of Dad’s hands out of the air. Dad deflated a bit. He sat down in the chair at the bedside. Mum had come up behind me and had her hands on my shoulders. I let go of Sherlock and backed off a couple of steps. I leaned back against Mum and I was really glad she was there. Dad was just shaking his head, staring at the floor. “When you do this you’re not just doing it to yourself, don’t you get it? You’re not just risking yourself. It’s also me, and Genie, and Grace. You can’t do this the way you used to. Christ, you’re not a young man anymore, neither of us are.” He scooted up close to the bedside and got right down close to Sherlock’s face, gripping his hand and holding it up between them. “You have to look me in the eye and promise me that you won’t do this again. You will not take anything or use too many patches. Not without talking to me. You can’t do this to me, Sherlock. I can’t lose you, I just can’t.” Dad’s voice broke near the end. It felt like something inside me broke too, to hear it.

It felt like a long time that Sherlock just looked at him, like he was taking the full measure of him. “I promise,” he finally said. He hesitated before he spoke again, looking straight into Dad’s eyes. “I swear, my love,” he whispered.

I let out a big breath. I’d never heard Sherlock call Dad anything except “John.” They don’t use endearments with each other, unless “mad bastard” and “bloody wanker” and “idiot” count.

Now, I’ve sorta reconstructed everything that they said as best I can remember, although I think it’s pretty damned accurate since most of that evening is seared into my brain forever. This, especially, I will never forget. I can close my eyes and see it. Because when Sherlock said that last bit, Dad’s face sort of – crumbled up. He dropped his head to Sherlock’s shoulder and I’m pretty sure he was crying, but Mum hugged me and said we ought to leave them alone, so we went back into the hall.

We sat there side by side, holding hands. Mum was wiping at her own eyes some, too. She must have seen me watching her. “I wouldn’t want to lose him either, Genie.” She didn’t say anything else, and I didn’t ask.

When Dad finally came out of Sherlock’s room he looked wrecked. I got up and hugged him supertight, which I think he needed. “Are you all right?” he asked me.

“Me, what about you? Are you okay?”

He smiled but it was weak. “You know, I’m not sure. I’m tired and I’m still bloody pissed, to be honest.”

Mum got up and took Dad’s hand. “John, let’s go find some coffee or something.”

“Coffee’d be good, but – Genie?” he said, looking at me.

“I’ll stay here. I think I’ll just have a bit of a word with Sherlock.”

Dad looked like he wanted to ask me what sort of word I wanted to have, but Mum pulled him away and walked him off down the hall with her arm around his shoulders. Have I mentioned that my mother’s the best?

I went into Sherlock’s room by myself. His eyes were closed but I could tell he wasn’t sleeping. I sat down in the chair Dad had been sitting in and he turned his head to look at me. “How d’you feel?” I asked him.

“Tolerable. I wish I had my laptop.”

“I think you’re meant to be resting.”

“Impossible to rest in a hospital. Not with people coming round every two hours to wake you up and tell you to rest.”

“I heard you promise him. There are witnesses.”

He nodded. “I know.”

“You better stick to it.”

He sighed. “I’m sorry I frightened you.” He sounded sincere.

“Yeah. It was really scary. You were just – on the floor. On your face.” I felt my throat tightening up just to think of it. “What were you thinking? Or were you thinking at all?”

“No, I wasn’t. I was thinking of the case.”

“Well, spare a thought for another person once in awhile, all right? I could rig up some kind of alarm on your mobile. It’ll go off every hour when you’re on a case and say ‘Remember, you have a family that would rather you didn’t die, so don’t do anything stupid.’”

He smiled. “You’ve had worse ideas.”

“Cor, I’ll say. Remember orange peanut banana surprise? Bloody disgusting. And the blender was never really the same after that.”

Sherlock grinned, then laughed a little. “Ah, Eugenia. You are never boring.” This was the highest praise Sherlock was capable of offering. He sobered then, and he looked at me rather intently. “Your father was the first person who ever made me wish I could be a different sort of man. You are the second.”

“I don’t _want_ you to be different. Neither does Dad. We like you the way you are.”

“I daresay you both deserve better.”

“Better than what?” I was choking up. “So you’re different from other people. That’s a good thing!”

“It isn’t good when I hurt people that I – that I wouldn’t wish to hurt.” He looked at me again. He seemed to sort of brace himself before he spoke. “I love you very much, you know,” he said. Oh yeah, big time tears on my face. “And if I were different, you wouldn’t have to doubt that.”

“I never doubted it,” I said, sniffing. “I can see right through you, you know.” He smiled. His eyes were wet, too, and don’t let him tell you otherwise. I just held his hand. “I love you, too,” I whispered.

Whew. Man, that was draining.

So you’ll understand now why it bothered me so much that Mum had seen him with nicotine patches on. That promise he made to me and Dad wasn’t one to be broken lightly. So I’ve decided I have to confront him about it. This whole entry has been me screwing up my courage to have a Big Hairy Conversation with Sherlock, which I am now about to do, pinky swear. I will continue this entry after conversation has taken place.

 _later_

Well, that didn’t go at all as planned.

I waited until Dad was out, then I cornered Sherlock in their lounge. “What’s this about you wearing three nicotine patches?” I demanded.

He just blinked at me. “Ah. Yes, I confess I was, last week.”

I stared at him. I couldn’t believe he was being so nonchalant about it. “After you swore to us you wouldn’t do that? How can you break your promise like that? You could die! Or does it just not matter that much to you?” Understand that I’m paraphrasing. In actuality, I was much less articulate and a lot screamier.

Sherlock was starting to get that panicked look on his face of “oh God my teenaged daughter is freaking out what the hell do I do now?” “Genie, calm yourself. I’ve broken no promise.”

“You just admitted it! Three nicotine patches!”

He got up, took me by the upper arms and steered me to the couch where he sat me down, then sat down next to me. “Listen for a moment,” he said, and I did. “Your father gave me strict guidelines about the patches, however they weren’t to do with the quantity of patches, but the overall dosage. My cutoff for any given twenty-four hour period is thirty milligrams. I did not exceed that dosage.”

“Are you calling my mother a liar?”

“Of course not. I’m not faulting her observation, just her conclusion. The three patches she saw were of the smallest dosage. Each one only contains seven milligrams. So even with three, I was well shy of the dose I promised not to exceed.”

I peered at him, hard. “Really? Are you just having me on?”

“I’d not trifle with you, Genie. You know better than that.”

“Oh.” Without my justifiable anger of betrayal, I was just a bit bewildered. “But…the other night you acted like you’d done something wrong! Mum threatened to tell Dad and you got all evasive!”

“Because your father would have done just what you did, and I’d rather not deal with it when I’m trying to work.” He sighed. “I would not break the promise I made him, and you. Even I can recognize when my behavior requires amendment. And as cavalier as I may have been about my physical well-being in the past, I do not actually relish the idea of premature death.”

“Well, good! Premature death is bad!”

Sherlock just shook his head. “Feeling a bit lost without your righteous indignation?”

“Yes, extremely. Let’s change the subject.”

“I have a better idea,” he said, getting up and pulling me to my feet. “I’ll take you to Angelo’s.”

“Ooh, yay! Can I have wine?”

“Don’t tell your father.”

“Do I ever?”

So, nicotine patch crisis was averted, and I got to have wine, and the cute new busboy at Angelo’s flirted with me. That is, until Sherlock asked him how his pregnant girlfriend liked living with his parents. He steered well clear after that.

Geez. Dads are such a drag sometimes.


	4. 12 September

**The Blog of Eugenia V. Watson, Knight of the Garter**

 _12 September_

I am the worst blogger EVER. Six whole days and nothing. Dad never goes that long. Not that he could. His legions of readers can’t wait twenty-four bloody hours for more of Sherlock’s adventures. They start getting demanding if he doesn’t update regularly. Nobody’s reading this blog. At least, they better not be, it’s set to private. They ought to just call that setting “navel-gazing” for truth in advertising. I prefer to think of it as the first draft of my inevitable best-selling memoir.

It’s been busy around here. Mum was away to Russia for a week, examining yet another skeleton that somebody claims is one of the Romanoffs. That supposedly all got settled ages ago and yet they keep finding stuff. I’ve been spending every waking hour, practically, at Leonid’s. He’s my chess master. I’ve got tournaments coming up and if I want that International Master title, I’ve got work to do. There are conversations taking place about me competing in an international tournament in Stockholm after Christmas. Trying not to get too excited.

Meanwhile here at Stately Wayne Manor, Batman and Robin have been unusually lovey-dovey lately. I don’t know what that’s about. I’m about fifty/fifty on the creepy vs. cute scale. The other night I came into the kitchen and Dad was washing dishes, and Sherlock was standing behind him and was _all_ up on his business, hands on his hips and kissing his neck and such, and Dad was _giggling._ Men of a certain age should under no circumstances giggle. I beat a hasty retreat. That which has been seen cannot be unseen. So there are those OMG MY EYES moments, but there are also the moments like last night, when I went over to 221 to say goodnight to them. They were watching telly sort of curled up together, with Sherlock’s head on Dad’s shoulder. Which kind of makes my girly heart go “awwww.”

Shhh. Don’t tell anybody that I have a girly heart. I have a rep to maintain.

Today there was weirdness with Zack. I don’t really know what to make of it. I guess background is in order for all the eventual readers of my best-selling memoir.

Zack is my best friend who’s a bloke. I go to a girls’ school, Francis Holland, so I don’t meet tons of guys, but Zack lives across the street so we’ve been friends since primary school. He moved in with his parents when we were about eight. He actually came over, knocked on our door and just straight-up asked if there were any kids living here he could play with. Sherlock told him to go stand on a street corner and start yelling that he wanted someone to play with and see what happened. Luckily Dad overheard him and headed Zack off before he could actually implement this suggestion, and he invited Zack up to 219 to meet me. I thought he was a world-class nerd at first. This impression turned out to be one hundred percent accurate, but I’ve learned to appreciate that about him.

Today Zack met me after school, like always. My school is conveniently located about four blocks from home. It’s brilliant. I can go home for lunch. Sometimes whatever’s going on at home is way more interesting than school and I linger and linger until somebody shoves me out the door. Anyhow Zack’s school is about a mile up the road and he walks, too, so he waits outside Francis until I get out and then we walk the rest of the way together. This has been going on since I was twelve, which is when I started at Francis.

Metsy says Zack is madly in love with me. I think Metsy needs her head examined because she always thinks every boy is madly in love with either me or herself. And the mere fact that he voluntarily spends so much time with me is highly suspect in her opinion. It can’t just be that we’re friends and enjoy each other’s company. I honestly don’t know how I’d feel if Zack were in love with me. I mean, he’s quite fit. He plays football and swims and such. He’s had loads of girlfriends. None ever seem to last more than a few months.

Anyhow, getting back to today. I came out of school and there he was. “Alright, Genie,” he said.

“Alright, Zack.” And we started walking back to Baker Street.

“Sooooo I heard you got invited to Paul Starkey’s party this weekend.”

“Yeah. Me and half the class.”

“Are you gonna go, then?”

“I guess. Paul Starkey’s a bit of a wanker, but I’ve not seen a lot of the old crowd in ages.”

“Well,” he began, then he sort of stopped and fidgeted and shuffled. “Maybe we could go together, like. I mean carpool or what have you. You know. Nothing major, just – go to the party, like, me and you, maybe get a bite before?”

He was acting very strangely. “Uh…yeah, sure. I guess. Metsy and Bryn are coming too, and Bryn’s boyfriend, I suppose we could all fit if you drove your mum’s car.” Looking back on this exchange with benefit of hindsight, I am a _bleeding idiot._

Then he got all sulky and weird about it. “If you wanna go with them it’s no big deal, I didn’t mean that I – I might not even go anyway. Never mind.” And he walked really fast so I could barely keep up and we didn’t talk the rest of the way home.

If that was Zack trying to ask me out, he made a very bad job of it.

Anyway. This led to what I actually meant to write about tonight when I sat down at the computer. God. I can’t stick to the point to save my bloody life.

So I’m up in my room studying chess openings when Dad knocks and pokes his head in. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, giving me the twinkly-eye look. I jumped up and grabbed my coat and off we went.

We do this, you see. Me and Dad. A couple of times a week he’ll come find me and say “Let’s make our escape” or something like that and we go off somewhere. To a park, or to get an ice cream or a coffee, or down to the secondhand store on the next block that I love love love. Just get away from home and Mum and Sherlock and chess and homework and crime-fighting and bones and everything else and hang out. Some of the best conversations I’ve ever had with Dad have been on these little impromptu dates. Me and Mum do early-breakfast-outings and late-night-telly-talks. Me and Sherlock do not-strictly-necessary-cab-rides and not-really-chess-games. Me and Dad do escapes.

Tonight we just went for a walk around Regent’s Park, which is right round the corner from our house. We go there a lot. “Didn’t want to go for food tonight, your mother’s making dinner,” he said.

“This is good,” I said, my arm hooked through his. “I was starting to see chess deals floating in the air before me.”

“I wish I understood that game better. I watch you play and I sort of follow what’s going on, but barely.”

“I just like that you’re there to cheer.”

“I always will be.”

We walked quietly for a few minutes. “Can I ask you something? Something serious, I mean.”

“Sure. Should we sit down?”

“Yeah.” We found a empty bench and claimed it. I sat cross-legged on it and faced him. “Why hasn’t Mum ever gotten remarried?”

His eyebrows lifted a bit, like the question surprised him. “What brought that on?”

“I don’t know, I’ve just gotten to wondering. I mean, she doesn’t even _date._ Like, not at all.”

“No, she doesn’t.”

“She could if she wanted to. She’s gorgeous. For her age, I mean.”

He snorted. “I won’t tell her you added that last disclaimer.”

“She must not want to. I don’t get that. It doesn’t seem fair. You have Sherlock, but she’s just – alone. It makes me sad.”

“She isn’t alone. She has you and me and yes, even Sherlock.”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it.”

He cleared his throat and seemed a bit uncomfortable with the question. “Your mother’s very busy with her work, and raising a child takes up a lot of time, and one’s priorities change. Finding someone new might not be her top goal just now.”

“You managed to find time to date Sherlock.”

He snorted. “Genie, Sherlock and I never _dated._ ” He went quiet, a funny look coming over his face.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing, I’m just trying to imagine what dating Sherlock would be like. I can’t quite wrap my head around the idea. What I’m saying is, it was a bit different with us. He was already in our lives, it was just…” He trailed off. “Well, I was about to say it was easy, but it wasn’t.”

“It seemed pretty easy to me.”

“Good. That was something we all agreed was very important, that your life be disrupted as little as possible. But we’re getting off-topic here, you were asking about your mother.”

I had been, but this was more interesting. I let it drop, though. I had the feeling that the story of their whole family reorganization when I was seven wasn’t a short conversation. “I don’t want her not to date people because of me,” I said.

“I’m sure that’s not why.” The words were of the sort that people use for reassurance, but the way he said them made me think that he could be so sure because he knew the real reason why and that wasn’t it.

I peered at him. “Dad, you’re not telling me something.”

He met my eyes, then sighed. “Some things aren’t my place to tell, sweetheart.”

I scooted closer and stared out at the park. “You loved her, right?”

He reached out and took my hand. “Yes. I loved her very much. I still do.”

“But you weren’t _in love_ with her, is that it?”

He chuckled. “I think you’ll find that’s a distinction that’s only meaningful to screenwriters.” He turned on the bench so he was facing me more. “You’re old enough to understand this now, or at least I hope you are. It is possible to be in love with more than one person at a time. I hope you never have to know how painful that is, to know that someday you’ll have to make a choice.”

“And you chose him.”

He swallowed hard. “It wasn’t that simple. I didn’t…well. It wasn’t that simple.”

Suddenly, something clicked in my head. “Is she…she isn’t…she isn’t still, like, pining for you, is she? And that’s why she isn’t dating?”

He was watching my face very carefully, like he’d watch the ground of a minefield he was trying to cross. “No. She isn’t pining. Not for me, anyway.”

“I’ve always had a feeling that there was this empty space in Mum’s life, like something she never talked about. Is it somebody? Somebody that she…” My eyes widened. I was getting ideas. “Dad, did she…”

He held up a hand to stop me. “You really ought to talk to her about this, luv. Your mother’s stories aren’t mine to tell. She’s a – complicated person, more so than you probably know. But I can tell you that one reason why your mother and I were such a good fit was that we had some particular things in common. Things we understood about each other, things we accepted in each other.”

I searched his eyes. “Are you ever sorry? I mean, do you ever wish you’d stayed married to Mum?”

He looked a bit scared of the question. “Do you wish that, Genie?”

“Me? Oh, Dad…don’t worry. This isn’t one of those ‘child of divorced parents wishing for reconciliation’ things. I’m way past that, if I ever had it to begin with.”

“Oh. Good. In that case, no. I’m not sorry. Honestly, I couldn’t ask for a better situation. Your mother and I are good friends and we can still work together to be your parents. We don’t have to muck about with custody and visitation and we both see you just as much as if we were still married.”

“And you still get to be with your soulmate?” I said, my girly heart winning out for a moment.

He rolled his eyes. “Oh God, don’t say that in front of Sherlock. You can’t imagine the ridicule I’d be in for. He doesn’t believe in such things.”

“Do you?”

He thought about that for a moment. “Genie, listen a second, because this is important. There isn’t just one person for everyone. Nobody’s a perfect fit. There isn’t a destined partner of your existence, there’s no one true love without whom you’ll never be happy. Love doesn’t find you, it isn’t something that falls into your lap like a gift from the heavens. You choose someone and then you build it together.” He squeezed my hands. “When I met your mother I wanted to choose her, and build that with her. What I didn’t realize, or maybe what I wasn’t letting myself realize, was that I had already made my choice. Sometimes I think that it had been made for me. So what’s that? I don’t know.”

“I told you. Destiny.”

He shrugged. “You go ahead and think so if you want. You know, when your mother and I were dating, I told her once that I wasn’t sure if Sherlock was actually my friend. He was more like a condition of my existence. To keep living, I have to eat and breathe and sleep and put up with a barking mad consulting detective. At the time I didn’t mean it at all in a romantic way, more like an exasperated way. But that’s still the best description I can come up with.”

“Except now you get snogs.”

He burst out laughing, his cheeks going pink. “Well, the job ought to come with some perks, don’t you think?” He tugged me close and put his arm around me. “Why all this love talk tonight? Dare I detect some personal relevance? Can it be that Mr. Zack has finally made his intentions known?”

I wasn’t going near that one with a ten-foot pole. “Nah. I just got to wondering about Mum.”

“Why aren’t you asking her?”

“I will. Eventually. You’re more likely to talk to me about stuff like this. Mum can be kind of closed-off.”

“She can be. When things are personal.”

Some of the things Dad had said were troubling me a bit. “Dad, what you – the way you were talking about Sherlock just now, like it wasn’t your choice. I mean, you do...you do love him, right?” He eyed me, a bit suspiciously. “Okay, I see your look. Listen, you know that thing kids have where all they want is for their parents to stay together forever and ever? I’m not immune. I have that too. Except for me it’s you and Sherlock, because I barely remember when you and Mum were married, and it’s not like you’re even divorced now because you practically still live together. So humor me, okay? Reassure me that my dads won’t split up?”

Dad smiled at me. “Condition of my existence, remember? I couldn’t split up with Sherlock any more than I could decide to stop breathing.”

“But you wouldn’t want to, right?”

“No. I wouldn’t want to.” He got up off the bench and pulled me to my feet. We kept walking the way we’d been going. He was silent for a few minutes. “I know I probably haven’t answered your question the way you want to hear,” he finally said. “I just…” He put his arm around my shoulders. “I don’t really have good enough words for how I feel about Sherlock,” he said, quietly.

I smiled to myself. I wonder if he knew that those were the good enough words.


	5. 19 September

**The Blog of Eugenia V. Watson, the Demon Barber of Baker Street**

 _19 September_

Oh my God. I can’t even. The night I just had.

I am totally supposed to be asleep right now. It is two o’clock in the morning and I am wired like a – like a thing that’s really, really wired. I can hardly string two thoughts together. I may or may not be in a truly epic amount of trouble tomorrow morning. I don’t want to think about it.

So I went to Paul Starkey’s party. You remember, the one Zack wanted to go with me to? Then he said he didn’t want to go. Well, he did go, and he brought Sophia Eddleston. She has a misspelled tramp stamp.

No comment.

Anyway, me and Metsy and Bryn took the Tube. It goes to within like three blocks of Paul’s house. The party was just what I expected. Boring. Plastic cups of cheap beer from a keg in the bathtub. Dance music badly modulated so all you can hear is the damn bass, and so many people you can’t even dance in the first place. Metsy was relishing in the freedom of Ian not being around. She’s still a bit barmy with adrenaline from her pregnancy scare of a few weeks back, too. So she was doing the vertical grinder with various boys on the dance floor – um, dance area? Not exactly a floor, really.

Bryn and I tried to carve out some breathing space in a corner. She swiped a plate of chips and we munched on those. Why was I there? I don’t know. Not my sort of outing, usually. My idea of fun is going to a concert, or a club to hear a band, or to the cinema, or just holing up in someone’s den with a bunch of recordings of old Monty Python episodes. I’m not a beer-party sort of girl.

Honestly, I’d rather have been home watching telly with Mum.

So when a couple of guys and their girlfriends that I sort of knew came up and asked us if we wanted to get out of this lame party, I was all over it. Bryn decided to stay with Metsy, but I couldn’t take another second of this. Which is how I ended up crammed into someone’s Jeep, heading for a concert of someone’s brother’s band at some seedy jazz club in Hampstead.

A flat tire, a flurry of texts and a pit stop at a disreputable Thai restaurant later and half of our original party had scarpered, leaving me with the guy and girlfriend that I knew but less than I’d known the other faffed-off pair, plus two other guys who I didn’t know at all, and a Goth chick who seemed to be named Cocksure, although that couldn’t really be right, could it?

This was starting to feel like a bad idea. I didn’t know any of these kids, not really. The whole concert-at-jazz-club idea seemed to have been abandoned and now we were just cruising around London in Cocksure(?)’s Range Rover, looking for somebody called Bleedin’ Eddie, which didn’t sound promising. I was squashed between the two Other Guys in the backseat, Guy I Sorta Know and Girlfriend were in the passenger seat with her on his lap while Cocksure(?) drove like a maniac.

“Hey, I think I know you,” one of the Other Guys said to me.

“I don’t think so, mate.” I had my arms crossed and my legs crossed and was trying to take up as little room as possible, not to mention trying to present a minimum of flesh for accidental-on-purpose groping.

“Yeah! You’re that bird!”

“Um…can you be more specific?”

“The fag hag!”

My jaw dropped. “What?!?” It was not news to me that people call me “fag hag” behind my back. Sometimes they do it to my face. This fact will never, ever be related to my parents. They’d only feel guilty and I can handle the situation. I just didn’t expect it to come up _now._ The traditional wielder of this less-than-creative nickname is Lilly Bathgate, my designated mean-posh-girl nemesis at school. And I was pretty sure she didn’t know any of these wankers.

“You totally are! You’ve got poof dads, right?”

“Your dads are poofs?” Cocksure(?) said, eyeing me in the rearview mirror.

“Stop saying ‘poof!’” I yelled.

“All right, fine, you’ve got _gay_ dads, then,” the Other Guy said, drawing out the word “gay” with sarcastic emphasis.

I tried to muster some dignity. “My father is married to a man, yeah.”

“Right. Ho-mo-sex-u-al.”

“You have a fucking problem with that?” I snarled.

Other Guy put up his hands. “Hey, take it easy. I don’t have a problem.”

“I think that’s bloody hot,” Cocksure(?) said. “You ever seen ‘em doing it? Which one’s on top, then?”

“Oh my God,” I muttered. “These are my parents we’re talking about! Shut up!”

“Don’t tell me to shut up in my car, you fucking chav!”

“I am not a chav!” Oh my God, do I look like a chav? That needs to be addressed, like now. I was wearing a hoodie tonight. Is that really all it takes? “And I’m not the one calling my dads ‘poofs!’”

“Why are you even here? Why is this bint even here?” Cocksure(?) said to Guy I Sorta Know.

“I don’t fuckin’ know,” GISK said.

I sighed. By this time I was wondering how the hell I’d gotten myself into this situation. “Just let me out at the next Tube stop, will you? I gotta go home.”

“Aww, does the widdle girlie have to get home before curfey so her woofter dads can tuck her into beddie-bye?” the Other Other guy said in a stupid baby voice.

“The widdle girlie wants to get the hell away from you tossers,” I said, perhaps inadvisedly.

Cocksure(?) stamped on the brakes. “You can get the fuck out right here, then.”

A little panic was setting in. “But – I’ve no idea where we are.”

Other Guy had gotten out and Other Other Guy gave me a shove. I didn’t have much choice but to get out of the car. Other Guy got back in. “Figure it out, fag hag,” Cocksure(?) yelled, and they took off.

I looked around. This was not good. I was in a not-great neighborhood and there was hardly anybody around. Looked mostly residential and not in a friendly way, but more of a purse-snatching sort of way. I didn’t have enough money for a cab home and I had no idea where the nearest Tube stop was.

I told myself I could handle this. I’m no big girl’s blouse. I’m the daughter of a woman who boils people for a living, a war hero with nerves of steel and a man that the most devious criminals in the world run from in terror. I can deal with being lost in a strange neighborhood.

I tucked my handbag across my chest and closed my jacket over it, stuck my hands in my pockets and headed off towards what looked like a major road. When I got there, it really wasn’t all that major. I headed off in another direction.

Long story short, I got even more lost. The neighborhood got worse and worse. Maybe I wasn’t quite as brave as I thought, because I was getting really scared. Tears were a distinct possibility. The likelihood of my getting out of this without calling home for help was vanishingly small.

I ducked into a doorway and into the shadows, hoping to be invisible. I got out my mobile. Who to call wasn’t really a hard decision, based as it was solely on who would get me home the fastest and give me the least amount of grief about it. I dialed Sherlock’s number, praying he was awake and not tucked into bed with Dad. The odds were in my favor.

“Genie, what’s wrong?” he said, in lieu of a greeting.

“Huh?” I said, confused.

“You’re supposed to be at a party, you wouldn’t call home if something weren’t wrong.”

Just hearing his voice made me lose it a little. My next words were a bit tear-garbled. “Sherlock, I need help. I’m lost, I was with these kids, these total arseholes and they left me someplace in the East End and I don’t know where I am and it’s scary here.”

I heard a loud bang and then footsteps, and I knew that he’d just stood up fast enough to knock over his chair. “Can you see any street signs from where you are?”

I peeked out and looked. “Yeah, it’s – there’s a corner. Portelet and…Massingham?”

“What the devil are you doing in Bethnal Green? No, don’t bother, you can tell me later. I am coming to get you right now, understood?”

“Okay,” I said.

“Listen closely. Walk down Massingham until you get to Globe Road. Turn right and about a block down there’s a little coffee shop, it’s open twenty-four hours. I know the proprietor. He’s not the friendliest of men but you tell him you’re my daughter and he’ll take good care of you. I’m getting in a cab right now, I’ll be there soon.”

“Okay.”

“The odds of anything untoward happening to you are quite low. It’s not that bad of a neighborhood.”

“Sherlock, wait – is Dad…”

“He’s asleep. We’ll discuss what he’s to be told about this later.”

“All right,” I said, resigning myself to my fate. “Wait, Sherlock – isn’t this where Jack the Ripper killed a bunch of prostitutes?”

“That was just a bit west of there, but basically, yes. I hardly need reassure you that you’ll not become the Ripper’s next victim, need I?” The little smirk in his voice made me smile.

“No. I guess not.”

“Are you walking?”

“Yes. I’m on Massingham. I can see Globe Road.”

“Good. I’m on my way.”

“Okay.” I felt better already. There were more lights on Globe Road. I hung up and ran the rest of the way. The coffee shop was right where he’d said it would be.

I went in. The place was deserted. The proprietor was a burly bearded bloke who reminded me a bit of Angelo, if Angelo had looked like he was ready to join a motorcycle gang. “You’re out late, girlie,” he growled at me, eyeing me like I might be about to rob him.

“Um – I’m supposed to tell you that I’m Sherlock Holmes’s daughter.”

His whole face changed. “You don’t say! Mister Holmes, eh? And you’re little Miss Holmes?”

I wasn’t, but I’d be glad to borrow the name for the time being. “Yep, that’s me.”

“Did you get yourself lost, sally?”

“A bit, yeah. Sher…uh, my dad said you’d look after me until he gets here.”

“Oh, it’d be my pleasure. You want some coffee, then?”

“Love some, thanks. Cream and sugar?”

“Comin’ right up.” I sat down by the counter and he brought me a cup of coffee. It was really good. “Sooooo,” he said. “When did Mister Holmes get himself a daughter? You don’t look much like him, do you?”

“Well, he’s my stepdad, actually. He’s married to my father.”

“Your father?” The man – still hadn’t gotten his name – peered at me. “Not that doctor chap he always palled around with.”

“Dr. John Watson, yeah. He’s my dad.”

“Yeah, you favor him quite a lot. Well, I’ll be chuffed. Always did think something was a bit squirrely with them two.” He laughed. “Never woulda picked your dad out for a bender. Mister Holmes, though, can’t say that’s a surprise.”

I squirmed in my seat. Seems that tonight had been declared the official night of people commenting on Dad and Sherlock’s sexual orientations and I hadn’t gotten the email. “So, how do you know Sherlock?” I asked, hoping to change the subject.

“Crikey. Was years ago now. Had an employee of mine die here in the shop, poisoning. Coppers thought I done it but he and your dad proved it weren’t. Guess I owe him a lot. Enough to look after his little girl, sure enough,” he said, winking at me.

So I sat and drank about four cups of coffee (hence the wired like a wired thing) and talked to the proprietor – finally got it out of him that his name was Peter – about all the barmy coffee-shop things that happen to him.

Sherlock showed up about twenty minutes later. I jumped up as soon as he came in and flung myself at him, I was so happy to see him. He hugged me back. “There, there,” he said, in his best approximation of comfort. He smelled like home and tea and Dad’s aftershave, they must have been cuddled up at some point this evening. “Much obliged, Peter,” he said.

“My pleasure. That’s a lovely girl you got there, Mister Holmes.”

“She has her moments,” Sherlock muttered, bundling me out the door and into the cab idling outside. I let out a big breath once I was in the back seat. He got in after me and I scootched close to him. “Now,” he said, in Stern Voice. “Would you care to start at the beginning?”

I told him everything, except the ‘fag hag’ bit. I just said they’d kicked me out after an argument. Close enough. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have left the party.”

“Clearly.”

“Technically I didn’t break curfew! I have half an hour left.”

“Curfew presumes that you are where you’ve said you’d be. I suspect that absenting yourself to a different location renders the curfew agreement null and void.” He shook his head. “Honestly, Genie. I would have expected more sense from you.”

“It was just such a dull party. I was just – I couldn’t be there anymore.”

“That it was dull, I have no doubt. But that’s not why you left.”

I sighed. “Oh, it isn’t?”

“No. You left because Zack Lancaster was there with another girl.”

Damn him.

I sat there and crossed my arms over my chest. “Why are people such arseholes, Sherlock?”

He chuckled. “A question for the ages, my dear. I suppose it’s in their nature, as it seems to be in the nature of all people everywhere.”

“Except you and me, of course.”

“Oh, I can think of any number of people who’d take exception to my exemption from the legion of global arseholes.”

“Like criminals?”

“Definitely.”

“Cabbies?”

“Possibly.”

“Umm…detective inspectors?”

“Repeatedly.”

“Ex-Army doctors?”

He smirked. “Most assuredly.”

We got home just before my curfew. Sherlock stopped me before we went inside. “Now, Genie. I really ought to relay your entire night’s festivities to your parents.”

“C’mon, Sherlock. Haven’t I suffered enough?”

“I daresay you’ll think twice about a repeat performance, which is, after all, the goal of any potential punishment, therefore such punishment must be considered redundant.”

“Yes! Exactly!”

He arched one eyebrow at me. “I’ll think about it.”

I sagged. “All right.”

“Off to bed with you, then. I’d recommend a shower first. You smell like a brewery.”

I was overcome with affection for my odd stepfather just then. I threw my arms about his neck and kissed his cheek. “Thanks, Sherlock. For coming to my rescue.”

He harrumphed, patting my shoulder. “I’d say you’re welcome, but you’re not. It was bloody inconvenient.”

I grinned. He didn’t fool me. “Well, thanks anyway. See you in the morning.”

“At which time you may or may not find yourself grounded.”

“I’ll take my chances.” I turned and went off to 219’s front door while he went in 221’s. Mum had fallen asleep in front of the telly and barely woke up long enough to say hello to me, much less notice my general dishevelment. The smell of beer wouldn’t have been a surprise. She bid me goodnight, toddled off to bed and now here I am, still waiting to come down from Peter’s coffee. I’m pretty sure I can see the inside of my own skull.

What does he put in that stuff, jet fuel?


	6. 23 September

**The Blog of Eugenia ~~V.~~ H. Watson, Vampire Hunter**

 _23 September_

Okay. Okay.

Deep breath.

I think…no, wait. Am I? Definitely, I’m…not quite…wait a minute.

No. Yes. I’m sure. I am totally sure.

I’ve just made a Major Life Decision. Possibly the first one I’ve ever made totally on my own. Bloody nerve-wracking. But not as nerve-wracking as what I have to do now.

Now, I have to tell my parents. So I’m about to go round up all three of them. They’re all home. Sherlock actually had dinner with us tonight, as Dad is constantly trying to get him to do. I think he ate three whole bites. A breakthrough! But now Mum’s in her office, and Dad and Sherlock are doing some kind of research involving many old, thick books. So here I go.

Any second now. I’ll be off.

Aaaaaand I’m going. Now. No, really.

Damn it. This isn’t that scary. They’re not going to be horrified. My dad is the one likeliest to throw a wobbly so I’ll just brace myself for that. It isn’t a big awful thing I’m asking for.

Okay. I can do this. I’ll be back and finish this entry after the family meeting.

 _later_

OH MY GOD.

Once again, that did not go the way I expected it to go. I’m all weepy still, I’m stunned, I can’t even. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

So I got them all away from their projects and sat everybody down on the couch in 219’s lounge, Dad in the middle. I pulled the ottoman over in front of them and sat on it. Mum looked suspicious. Dad looked terrified. Sherlock looked irritated to have been interrupted in the middle of Big Dusty Book Research.

“So, I bet you’re all wondering why I’ve called you here today,” I said, going for a joke up front. It failed miserably.

“Are you pregnant?” Dad blurted out.

“Dad!” I said. Holy God, how could he think _that?_

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “She isn’t pregnant, John. Any idiot can see that.”

“I can’t help it! A father has to ask these questions! It’s some kind of reflex!”

“I’m not pregnant,” I said. “Nothing tragic has happened, I’m not failing anything, nobody panic!” I saw them relax minutely. “There’s just something I have to discuss with you. Something I’d like to do.”

“Is this about that trip to Gstaad over Christmas?” Mum asked. “Because that subject is closed for debate.”

“This isn’t about Gstaad! Will you please let me talk?”

“You’re right, you’re right, I’m sorry.” She folded her hands in her lap like she was getting ready for a job interview. “Please, go ahead.”

I took a deep breath. “I’d like to have my name legally changed.”

Three identical expressions of bewilderment greeted this statement. I could tell that even Sherlock hadn’t been expecting that. “Your name?” Dad asked. “But…I thought you liked your name.”

“I do. I love it. I’d just like to have a different middle name.” My full name is Eugenia Victoria Watson. Eugenia after Mum’s grandmother, and Mum’s twin sister Adele (it’s also her middle name). Victoria after Dad’s mother. And Watson, of course.

“What’s wrong with Victoria?” Dad asked, puffing up a bit.

“Not a thing. But I have your last name, Dad. I’d like things to be a bit more – evenly distributed.”

“What would you like to change it to?” Mum asked.

“I’d like to change my middle name to Holmes.” I watched Sherlock’s face as I said this. He just sat there staring at me, looking utterly nonplussed. “That way I’ll have one name from – from each of my parents.” Mum was smiling at me. Dad looked completely bowled over, and a bit like he might cry. He reached out and took Sherlock’s hand. He laced his fingers tight with Dad’s right off, which is a dead giveaway with him.

“I think that’s very sweet,” Mum said. “Don’t you, John?”

“I don’t know what to say,” Dad said, sounding choked up. He looked over at Sherlock. “Sherlock, didn’t you hear?”

“Of course I heard,” he said. He fixed me with that intense stare of his that had long ago ceased to intimidate me. “I’m touched by the gesture, Genie. But you needn’t make it out of some sense of obligation, or because you think that I require a demonstration of familial feeling.”

“This isn’t about you, Sherlock. I mean, I suppose it sort of is, as it’s your name. I guess I’m asking for your permission to use it, too. If you don’t want me to, I understand. I know the name has History and all that. But I’d really like to. When I’m grown up and signing my name and getting a job and all that stuff, I’d like what I’m called to mean something. I’ll always know that it comes from my parents, and like it or not, you’re one of them.”

Dad was looking at me with this expression I’ve never seen before on his face. Sherlock was still cool and collected, but I knew him well enough to know that he was affected by what I’d asked. He cleared his throat and sat up a bit straighter. “Genie, I’d be honored to have you bear the name of Holmes.”

I hadn’t quite realized how afraid I’d been that he’d say no until he’d said yes. I blew out a big breath. “Cor, that’s a relief. Thank you.”

“Did you really think he’d refuse?” Dad asked.

“One never knows,” I said. “So. I’ve researched the process and there’s not much to it. Apparently it’s a lot simpler to change one’s middle name than one’s surname. It doesn’t even have to be official, but I’d like it to be. There’s an online thing to fill out then they send you the forms, it costs about eighty quid. I’ve got that saved up, though.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock said. “Don’t bother with all that. Mycroft can take care of it.”

“Oh, I don’t want to bother him with this.”

“He’ll have it done in less than a minute. And it’s his name, too, I’m sure he’ll be delighted to assist in grafting some new blood onto our rather stagnant family tree.”

“How long have you been thinking about this, Genie?” Mum asked.

“Awhile. At first I thought about asking if I could have a hyphenated last name. But then it didn’t feel right to leave out your name, Mum. And sorry, but I just don’t think I could face going through life with the last name Pepperidge-Holmes-Watson.”

Everyone laughed. “Eugenia Holmes Watson,” Dad said, quietly. “Sounds quite nice, actually.”

“Dad, you’re all right with this? Me giving up your mum’s name?”

He nodded. “I’m all right with it. It’s your name, sweetheart. It ought to reflect who you are. And horrifying as it is, I think Sherlock’s been just as much of an influence as your mother or I have been.”

“Horrifying, is it?” Sherlock said, cocking an eyebrow at Dad. “Yes, I suppose I am. It’s a wonder you let me near your precious family at all.”

“Not much choice. Wouldn’t be my family without you in it,” Dad said, smiling at him with that soft look in his eyes. Sherlock fidgeted, muttering a bit, then stood up.

“Well, I’ll go and ring Mycroft.”

“Once that’s done, what say we all go out for some ice cream?” Dad said. “Bit of a celebration, yes?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, then let’s pop round the street fair so you can win us plushies, and we’ll walk along the beach and build sand castles and fly kites before we all walk home singing tra la la with joined hands and Genie riding on your shoulders, John.” He snorted and disappeared into 221b.

Dad looked a bit crestfallen. He glanced at me. “I’m sorry, luv. You know, he does that when…”

“When he’s emotional. Sixteen years I’ve known him, you think I don’t know that he gets snarky and and defensive when things get too personal?”

He smiled. “I’ll just go beat him severely about the head and shoulders, then. But there shall be ice cream. I pledge it to you as your father.”

“I accept your solemn vow.” Dad got up and followed Sherlock into their flat. I flopped down next to Mum, tucking into her side.

“You think I’m being hasty, Mum?”

She slipped her arm about my shoulders and I laid my head against her neck. “You’re never hasty about anything, daughter mine.”

“Names are significant.”

“I know. Your dad and I thought long and hard about yours. And I suppose Sherlock had some input as well.”

“Did he?”

“Well, in his way. Every name we suggested, he’d come up with some famous criminal or notorious femme fatale who’d shared it. We finally stumped him with Eugenia. Good thing, too, because that name was my favorite.”

“How did he act when you were pregnant? Was he all mean and sarcastic about it?”

Mum sighed. “No, actually. He was fascinated. Always after me for data. Observations, of course. Was I the right size? The right weight? Was I experiencing the correct milestones in the correct order? I felt like a walking experiment half the time.”

“It must have been hard for him, though. He was in love with Dad all that time and nobody knew it.”

Mum was quiet for a moment. I could practically _hear_ her considering and discarding responses to that. “Yes. It was hard for him. He never showed it, though.” She kissed the top of my head. “Well, if we’re going for ice cream then I’d better put some shoes on.” She patted my knee and got up. “Back in a sec.”

I sat there for a moment, wondering what it was going to take for me to get a straight answer out of any of these damn adults, then headed over to 221 to see what the men were up to. The sight that greeted me when I went through into their lounge stopped me in my tracks.

They were in the kitchen, Dad up on his tiptoes with his arms about Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock was curled into the embrace, his face bowed down into Dad’s neck. Dad had one hand tangled in Sherlock’s hair, and he was rocking ever so slightly back and forth. Sherlock’s arms were wrapped tight around Dad’s back, clutching handfuls of his jumper.

I meant to clear off and leave them be – Sherlock hates getting caught out expressing an emotion – but Dad saw me. Sherlock straightened up right off and stepped away. I saw him take a quick swipe at his eyes. “Best go make that call,” he said, and he walked quickly off into the hall that leads to their bedroom. He kept his face carefully averted the whole time. Dad watched him go with that expression that meant he was remembering why he’d married the git in the first place.

“Everything ok?” I asked, more or less for something to say.

Dad beamed at me, then he walked up and wrapped me up in the biggest snuggliest hug. “Thank you, sweetheart,” he said into my ear. “Thank you for this.”

“It’s okay, Dad. It’s just a name.”

“No, no. Not just that.” He pulled back and took me by the shoulders. “You don’t know how grateful I am that you…” He paused, his chin trembling a bit. “That you accept me, that you accept all this.”

“ _Accept_ you? Why wouldn’t I?”

“You can ask that because of the sort of girl you are. It wouldn’t enter your head to disown your father because he…” He sighed. “Genie, I left your mother for a man. That’s the first sentence of a million family disasters and sad stories of estrangement. The reason it isn’t for us is because of you.”

I shook my head. “No, it’s because of how you did it. You didn’t _leave_ us, you arranged it so we’d all be together.” A sudden thought struck me. “Actually, Sherlock arranged it, didn’t he? I mean, he owns both these buildings. It can’t have been his life’s wish to have a ready-made family move in under his nose. However did you talk him into it?” Dad just looked at me, and I knew the answer. “Ohhhh,” I sighed. “Blimey, Dad.” I was a bit intimidated, honestly. Sherlock had done all this, bought a building, had doors put in, accepted the truly epic disruption to his life and his work and his concentration and everything else he claims to value, all so that he could be with Dad, and Dad could be happy and keep his family. I couldn’t really imagine what it must be like to have someone love me that much.

“I know,” he said, like he could read my thoughts on my face, which he probably could. “But the point is that none of this would have worked if you’d decided to hate me, or to hate him. You’ve made it possible for me to have a life with him _and_ you.” He hugged me again. This was turning into quite the emotional evening. “You don’t know what it means to me that you love him,” Dad said. “And for you to want to take his name…” He drew away, shaking his head. “You won’t hear it from him, but Sherlock was pretty well undone by your asking, and that doesn’t happen very often.”

Uh-oh. Tears welling. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” He kissed me. “Well, I’m spent.”

“These heartfelt chats are draining,” I said.

“You’re not kidding.”

“Dad – what you said before. That you left Mum for another man.”

His face went a bit cautioned. “Yes?”

“I mean, that’s true and all, but – didn’t you leave him first? To marry Mum?”

He sighed. “I suppose I did. I can’t be sorry about that, though. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have you. And honestly, I can’t imagine what my life would be if I weren’t your dad.”

Uh-oh. More tears welling. “Now you’re just doing that on purpose.”

Sherlock came back in, looking one hundred percent composed, wearing a jacket and ready to go out. “Oh, good God. Aren’t you two done yet? You’ve got me all peckish for ice cream now. Let’s be off if we’re going to.”

I hugged Dad one last time and popped back over to 219 to get my jacket and my shoes. When I came back downstairs, the three of them were in a huddle in the lounge, heads together, conferring very seriously about something. I was immediately suspicious. They all turned toward me at once, like it was some sort of rehearsed dance move. I almost giggled. “Come on, then!” Dad said. “Ice cream!” He took Sherlock’s hand and we all trooped out the front door.

We walked up and around the corner to the ice cream shop by the park, one of my favorite spots. Not only do they have divine ice cream but they’ve got a lovely terrace with a big koi pond, and it was a beautiful night, not too cool yet, and not damp for once. I walked behind, arm in arm with Mum, Dad and Sherlock ahead of us on the pavement, holding hands. They don’t normally do that in public, but Dad was probably feeling extra snuggly tonight.

We got our ice creams and found a table outdoors. Dad had a chocolate cone, same as he always gets. Mum had a float. I had a big slobbery mess of a sundae and Sherlock was nibbling at the smallest possible scoop they would give him in a cup, because God forbid his waist be larger than mine. “All right, then. What’s on?”

They all gave me innocent-face. “What do you mean, dear?” Mum said.

“You three are up to something. Let’s have it. No, no, don’t give me that ‘who, me’ face. I saw you all when I came downstairs, concocting things.”

They all looked at each other and exchanged nods. To my surprise, Sherlock was the one who spoke. “All right, Genie. We were going to wait until it went through, but I suppose it’s the night for it, isn’t it?”

“Night for what?”

“Your parents and I have had some paperwork drawn up that will…” He harrumphed a bit, then went on. “That will formalize my relationship to you.”

My mouth fell open as I realized what he must mean. “You mean you’re -- _adopting_ me?”

“Yes. If that’s agreeable to you.”

“ _Agreeable?_ It’s fantastic!” I had, in fact, asked about this when Dad and Sherlock got married. I wanted to know if Sherlock could be my real dad, too. Mum and Dad had told me that legally I couldn’t have more than two parents, and for Sherlock to adopt me, either Mum or Dad would have to relinquish their parental rights. I didn’t want that, either, so I’d let the matter drop. It wasn’t as if it really mattered, except in my head. Sherlock does have some legal standing with me. There is paperwork in place so that he can consent to medical treatment for me if Mum and Dad can’t be reached, and I knew that if Mum and Dad were somehow both killed in an accident or something that Sherlock would have legal custody of me. But this, for him to be my actual, legal parent, I’d thought was impossible. Which I thought I’d better clarify now. “But I thought that wasn’t legal. More than two parents, and so forth.”

“Normally, it isn’t,” Dad said. “But there’ve been a few exceptions made by the courts. Let’s just say that it’s being arranged for us to have an exception as well.”

“Arranged. By Mycroft, you mean.”

“He is occasionally useful,” Sherlock rumbled, dropping me a barely-perceptible wink. “So your little request this evening was rather fortuitously timed,” he said. “Your name change seems especially fitting given this development, don’t you think?”

I sat on my hands to keep from just flinging myself at him. “Fitting. Yes.” I cleared my throat and waited until the lump went down before speaking again. “Why now? Seems a bit out of the blue.”

“Well, you’re going to be going to a lot more chess tournaments abroad in the next few years. Given everyone’s schedules and work commitments and that fact that I’m the only one who knows the game well enough, it’s likely that I’ll be accompanying you on some of these trips. It seemed a sensible measure to take if we’re to travel together that I be your legally-recognized parent.”

I nodded along. “Yes. Sensible. Absolutely.” My lips were twisting about to keep the big massive grin from breaking out all over my face. Mum and Dad were watching us; she was hanging on to his hand with a barely-suppressed smile. Dad just looked misty again. I cleared my throat and stood up. “Well. I’m off to the loo. Back in a sec.” I hurried off to have my bit of a cry in private.

When I returned, Mum and Dad were alone at the table. They were finishing their ice cream, chatting about something, sort of leaning toward each other, laughing a bit. I paused in the doorway and watched them for a moment. I wondered if this is what they were like when they were married. As I’ve said before, I barely remember it, but just for a moment I had a bit of a nostalgia over it. It’s an odd thing, to have divorced parents who are still fond. They didn’t split up because they didn’t love each other anymore, after all. I just wish I understood how Mum really feels about it. She can’t be as amiable about it as she seems, can she? Maybe she is. Mum’s practical and rational and it’d be like her to sit down and make lists of all the factors and just decide that this is the most logical arrangement and therefore why wouldn’t she be in favor of it? But if she really loved Dad, how could she just stand aside and let him go be with Sherlock and not have some kind of emotional fallout from it? Maybe she does, and I just don’t see it.

Someday I’ll understand. Just not today, I guess.

I spotted Sherlock over by the koi pond, standing at the railing and watching the fish swim. It is sort of hypnotic. I snuck past Mum and Dad and walked over to stand next to him.

He was quiet for a moment before he said anything. “You do realize that this means that the next time you bollocks up one of my experiments, I’ll be fully empowered to ground you myself without having to go through one of your parents as an intermediary, don’t you?”

I smirked. “Ah, so that’s why you’re doing this. Efficiency of retribution. All becomes clear.”

“Quite.” He paused. “And you’re not to call me Dad or anything. ‘Sherlock’ will do just fine, as it has always done.”

“Understood.” I hadn’t been planning on attempting a change there.

He put his hands in his pockets and tucked his chin down into the collar of his coat. “I continue to be surprised by the unpredictability of my life,” he said. “One wonders how many unpredictable events need occur before they stop being surprises.”

“If they weren’t surprises, then by definition they couldn’t be unpredictable.”

He nodded. “Quite right.” He sighed and leaned on the railing around the koi pond. “I never imagined I’d have a – a daughter,” he said. “Or a family of any variety. I certainly never imagined I’d have a spouse. I’d tried and failed to concoct an image of the sort of person who would be able to tolerate me long-term. Surely such a person could never even exist. But, your father seems to delight in confounding my expectations about a great many things.”

“Didn’t you ever want those things? Not even secretly?”

“No. I never did. I’ve often heard it said that getting something that one’s always wanted is inevitably disappointing. The reality cannot live up to the anticipation.”

“The having is never as good as the wanting.”

“Just so. But conversely, if there never was any wanting, then the having has nothing to live up to. It can only exceed the expectations. To the point that one can’t imagine _not_ having.” He looked down at me with his little half-smile.

I grinned back. “Are you saying you just can’t picture your life without me?”

He sniffed. “I’d have thought that was clear enough.”

“So you admit that you pursued this adoption thing for _sentimental_ reasons?”

“I admit nothing.”

I turned him about so I could get my arms around his waist and hug him. “You don’t have to. I’ve deduced it.”

He chuckled, I could hear it through his chest, low and amused. He hugged me back. “Then I’ve taught you well.”

And now I must pause in this writing and go mop off my stupid face.

 _later_

All right, I’m back. If I were a fiction writer I’d just end it there, but I am a diarist, as I’m informed the proper term to be, so I must wrap up the evening. Basically Sherlock let me hug him for awhile, then Mum and Dad came down and made him stand still and submit to a family hug, and then he made a bloody great show of wrapping his coat around himself and stomped off in a huff. We followed along behind, and Mum and Dad were singing “Midnight Train to Georgia,” and I just floated along like a soap bubble, hoping I didn’t pop too soon.

When we got home there was a bunch of papers on the dining-room table of 219. I had a new birth certificate and new identifications, and there were some adoption papers with yellow flags indicating where signatures were required. Mycroft works fast when he’s appropriately motivated. Everything was signed and picked up by a messenger who showed up unsummoned about ten minutes later.

So now I’ve officially got three parents. Three people minding my homework. Three people monitoring my curfew. Three people scrutinizing my dates.

God, what have I done?


	7. 29 September

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was missed when I did the original upload of this story; I am inserting it now.

  
**The Blog of Eugenia H. Watson, Chief Cook and Bottle Washer**

 _29 September_

I’m looking back at my last entry and wow, I must be psychic. So that whole conversation I had with Sherlock about the having not being as satisfying as the wanting? Today I was provided with Exhibit A as to its truthiness.

Lemme back up a little.

First point of update is that Sherlock is having _way_ too much fun tormenting me in his new capacity as my legal dad. He has taken to answering every question I ask him with “Because I’m your father, that’s why.” Meanwhile Dad just snickers in the background and Mum says “hey, you asked for it.” So I’m to expect no help from the people who actually conceived me, in other words.

It’s possible that I have created a monster. No matter, he’ll get bored of it soon enough and it’ll be business as usual. Until then I shall suffer in silence. Last night Sherlock attempted to send me to bed without supper. Dad pointed out that this might not be an appropriate response to my being slightly too slow in passing the salt for Sherlock’s liking. He also implied that if he didn’t cut it out, Dad might send _him_ to bed without, ahem, anything. I pretended to be blissfully unaware of the sexual implications of this and just enjoyed Sherlock’s chagrined expression. Mum thinks this is all hilarious. It kind of is, really. It’s not as if he’s serious. He’s just acting like a berk to cover up his good mood. God forbid any of us might think he was _happy_ about my name change and his parental status.

Anyhow. On to this evening.

I went to Leonid’s after school. We spent two hours playing speed chess, which is him indulging me, really. I love speed chess. Leonid is more a proponent of the careful, measured approach. He gets off on it a bit, though, just like I do. I beat him fourteen games to twelve.

Sherlock showed up at quarter to six. “What are you doing here?” I said. “I thought I was taking the Tube home tonight.”

“I decided to come collect you instead.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m your…”

“…father, that’s why,” I finished, rolling my eyes. “Seriously, why?”

“I have business with Leonid.”

Oh. That meant money. I don’t really know how much Leonid gets paid for my chess lessons but I think it must be a lot, because Leonid doesn’t take many students but he’s got dozens of people lined up begging him to take them on. I’ve considered feeling guilty about this, but I think I’m pretty economical as kids go. I like to buy clothes at secondhand stores, I don’t play expensive sports, I don’t demand new gadgets constantly and I don’t get my hair colored. I’m not one to go demanding designer togs from my parents or running up huge charges on their credit cards. Leonid is my only big ticket item, and it’s not like it was even my idea in the first place. I’ve been studying with him since before I knew about things like money. All I can really do is make the most of my lessons, and I think I have (hello, 2425 Elo rating).

So I got my coat and bag while they talked, then we were out the door and into the cab. We were barely off before Sherlock’s mobile rang. “Ah, Lestrade,” he answered it. “You catch me en route.” He listened a moment. “Hmm. Interesting.” Pause. “I would, but I…” He glanced at me, his eyes narrowed in thought. “On second thought, I’ll be right there.” He hung up, and gave the cabbie a different address.

Could it be? No. Surely not.

He half-turned toward me. “Well, Genie? What do you say?”

“To what?” He just grinned at me. “Don’t tease me. Really? Seriously?”

“John’s on call tonight. I require an assistant.”

“You’re really letting me come to a crime scene?”

“I think you’re old enough, don’t you?”

“Are you mad? I’ve been dying for this since I was like five!”

“All right, then. You know the procedures.”

“Absolutely. I know just what to do.”

He went quiet then. I sat watching the streets go by outside, practically vibrating with excitement. When I was a kid, all I wanted in the world was to be a consulting detective and go to crime scenes with Dad and Sherlock. I even imagined this whole Consulting Detective ensemble I’d wear. Sherlock used to give me deduction tests, and I’d pore over ever one, honing my skills.

As I got older, this fell away a bit. My hero-worship of Sherlock dimmed when he stopped being exciting, exotic Uncle Sherlock that I saw a couple of times a week and turned into my stepdad Sherlock who I saw every day. I started exploring other things that were interesting to me. I got more dedicated to chess. I discovered my mom’s field of study and got hooked on that for awhile. You know, how kids do. Flit from one thing to another.

But I never completely lost my fascination with Sherlock’s job. I still love hearing about his cases and I still love his deduction tests, although he doesn’t give them very often anymore. This was still something I’d always wanted, to go to a real crime scene and see how I’d do in the field. I couldn’t believe he was letting me.

We pulled up to the crime scene. It was an ordinary house in an ordinary neighborhood. Sherlock was already looking around, taking everything in. We got out of the cab and stood there for a moment. I didn’t know quite what to say, or if he expected me to say anything.

“Genie! What are you doing here?”

I waved at Lestrade as he came striding up. “Hi, Greg!”

Now might be a good time to tell you that when I was thirteen, I had my first real, honest-to-God, bone-melting crush on Detective Inspector Lestrade. Oh my goodness, I had it so bad for him. He is rather dishy. And he’s a policeman, which is exciting, and he never treated me like a kid, which I appreciated. I also have memories of him being there after my accident, that he made me feel safe, which probably had some sort of subconscious effect as well. I was so gone on him, I’m sure the poor man took his fair share of ribbing about it because thirteen year olds don’t exactly know how to be subtle, so I’ve no doubt that my googly-eyed devotion was achingly obvious. Mum and Dad and Sherlock certainly knew. Mum thought it was cute, Dad thought it was disturbing, and Sherlock just rolled his eyes and wondered why I couldn’t pick someone less thick-headed to fancy.

The funny part is that I’m not the only one with a crush. I’m sure he thinks no one can tell, but Dad, Sherlock and I have known for awhile that Lestrade fancies my mother. A lot. Mum, for all that she’s usually very observant, is oblivious. I think she wants to be. Dad and I have talked about setting them up on a date, but we haven’t done it yet. Lestrade’s wife died about five years ago. Cancer. He doesn’t have any kids. He’s fit and kind and I’d think he’d be a fantastic person for Mum to date, if she were inclined to date anybody. I admit it’s nice to think of him being part of our little family, if only for the amusement of imagining him and Sherlock at the same holiday dinner-table, but so far all we’ve done is gossip about it.

For as nice as Lestrade always is to me, he didn’t look too thrilled to see me tonight. “Sherlock, what’s all this? You can’t just bring her along to a crime scene!”

“Why not?”

“She’s a civilian!”

“So am I.”

“She’s a minor!”

“And she is in the company of her legal guardian.”

“But…but…you just can’t!”

“Now you’re just being stubborn. John’s not available, you know I like having a colleague with me, Genie is more than adequate to the task.” I preened a bit under this assessment of my abilities.

“This is ridiculous. This isn’t Wernham-Hogg, Sherlock, we don’t have a Bring Your Kid to Work Day!”

“I beg to differ, I have seen notices of that precise event posted at the Yard.”

“Well, all right, but we don’t bring them to _crime scenes!_ ”

“Lestrade, every moment we stand out here bickering is another moment Anderson is mucking up the evidence. Are you going to let us in or not?”

He sighed, looking from me to Sherlock and back again. “All right, fine. But she is your responsibility, understood?”

“As I have recently legally declared, yes.”

Sherlock strode off to the staging area. He picked up a pair of latex gloves and handed another pair to me. I left my knapsack and snapped the gloves on, feeling official. We walked through to the kitchen, where there were lights.

Anderson came walking out as we approached. I’d never met this mythical person, but I knew him straight off from the contemptuous look he gave Sherlock. “Oh, fantastic,” he sneered. “Psychopaths on parade.” His gaze slid over to me. “Good Lord, what’s all this?”

“Anderson, this is my daughter, Eugenia. She’ll be assisting me this evening.”

“Your…your what? Oh, wait, she’s Watson’s kid, right?”

“Yes. Try and grasp the logic. She is John’s daughter, John is my husband, which makes her also _my_ daughter. Come, Genie. Try not to look directly at him. I wouldn’t want you to have nightmares.”

Anderson shook his head. “You poor thing,” he muttered at me as he passed. I was struck dumb. I guess I sort of knew that Sherlock wasn’t held in such high esteem by some of the Yarders, but I’m not sure I really believed it. How could they not see? After all the cases he’s solved and people he’s saved, how can they really, honestly think he’s some sort of – deviant?

I didn’t like it. Then again, it wasn’t like he went out of his way to be nice, either. It just wasn’t such a happy thing to see him being treated like dirt by people he’s trying to help. Dad says a lot of them just resent that he can do their job better than they can. Like that’s his fault. But Dad also says that Sherlock doesn’t help matters by denigrating them at every opportunity. Okay, point.

The kitchen had been cleared of people. We stepped into the lights, and there it was.

The dead person.

The first thing that hit me was the smell. Not rotting death, I know that smell from Mum’s work. No, this was brand-new death. Blood, that heavy metallic tang in the air, and urine, and things that leak out after the body stops trying to hold them in. I know about death, and the process that happens after. I’ve seen pictures and crime scene photos and plenty of Mum’s rotty gross corpses.

But this was a dead person. A real live dead person. A person who’d woken up this morning and gotten out of bed and gotten dressed, just like me, and who’d had no idea that she’d end the day being examined by police and forensics and consulting detectives and their daughters. A person who’d been alive a short time ago and now – wasn’t.

Sherlock was watching my face. “All right?” he murmured.

I nodded. “All right.” I thought I was all right. I was pretty sure I was all right.

“Tell me what you see.”

I took a deep breath. I shut my eyes and opened them again. _Don’t just see, observe._ “She’s been shot. In the back.” There was a red trajectory marker sticking out of the wound. “She was already on the floor when she was shot.”

“Good. What else?”

“The person that shot her was standing over her. She must have been unconscious when she was shot.”

“How do you know?”

“She’s still on her front, all calm and such. Her clothes aren’t messed up. If she’d hit the floor awake, she would have tried to turn back over and defend herself, throw up her hands, that sort of thing.”

“Good. So how did the killer render her unconscious?”

“Blow to the head?”

Sherlock crouched by her head. “No signs of trauma.”

“Umm – a drug of some kind?”

“Possible, but unlikely.”

I looked down at the woman’s feet. One shoe was off. I could see the nail polish on the toes of her bare foot. The polish on her big toe was chipped. She’d been due for a pedicure.

The next thing I remember, Sherlock was half-carrying me to a chair in the dining room. “Her toes,” I kept saying. “She needed her toes done.”

“Shh, sit down. Take a deep breath.”

“Her toes. She probably meant to get them done soon. She won’t now. She woke up this morning alive.”

“I know.” His hands were on my shoulders. “It’s all right, crumpet.”

I waited until my head cleared, just concentrating on breathing steady and the comforting weight of Sherlock’s hands. I straightened up. “Oh geez – nobody saw me throw a wobbly, did they?”

Sherlock glanced past me. “No – looks like everyone’s processing the rest of the house. Just you and me.” He ducked his head to look in my eyes. “I shouldn’t have brought you here, should I?”

“No, I’m glad. I’m glad you did. I want to help.”

“You’re not ready for this.”

“I am. I’ve seen tons of dead people.”

“Your mother’s skeletons aren’t the same as someone who was, as you said, alive this morning.”

“I’m okay. I’m not going to pass out or anything.”

He frowned. “Are you certain?”

“Yes.” I inhaled big and let it out slow. “I’m good. Let’s get back to work.”

We went back into the kitchen and I let Sherlock take over the deductions. Turns out that my observation of her toenails was significant. From that, he deduced that she’d been dragged, which led to the bedroom upstairs, which led to a pillow used to smother her, which led to fibers, which somehow, through a chain of deduction that I could barely follow, led to the woman’s personal assistant and some kind of scandal involving naked pictures on someone’s mobile.

I stood next to Sherlock and watched as the coroner wheeled the woman’s body out, inside a body bag. “Will they catch the assistant?”

“Already being taken care of.”

“The Yarders would have figured all those things out eventually, wouldn’t they?”

“Probably. But it would have taken them days to piece it together. That’s my most significant contribution, Genie. Speed. If I can see in half an hour what would take them a week to work out, the odds of catching the perpetrator go up astronomically.”

Lestrade walked up. “Well, Genie, what’d you think of your first crime scene? Think a career at the Yard is in your future?”

I forced a smile. “I doubt it. I’ll stick to chess for now. And then later, maybe – archaeology.”

Sherlock looked down at me, eyebrows raised. “Really? I thought it was microbiology?”

“Oh, that was last week.”

Lestrade chuckled. “Well, off you go. Thanks, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded, and we headed off to hail a cab.

Just a bit ago, Dad knocked on my door. “Can I come in?” he said.

“Sure.” I set aside my chessboard. He sat on the end of my bed.

“I hear you had a new experience tonight.”

“Don’t be mad at Sherlock for taking me.”

“I’m not. I know you’ve always wanted to go to a crime scene.” He smiled at me. “Not quite what you expected, was it?”

I shook my head. “She was just – lying there. She was so _dead,_ Daddy. Like none of it mattered, like it…”

“Like it could happen to any of us, at any time?”

“Yeah.” I looked up at him. “What was your first crime scene like?”

“Haven’t I told you that story?”

“No.”

“Oh, gosh. Well, I’d seen plenty of dead bodies, of course. Medical school, the A&E, and of course in the Army. But I’d never been to a crime scene until I met Sherlock. It was the first night I met him, practically.”

“Really? It was just hello, how d’you do, let’s be flatmates, now let’s go off to a crime scene?”

He chuckled. “More or less exactly how it went, yes.”

“Didn’t you think he might be a nutter?”

“The thought did cross my mind. That first one was in Brixton.”

“Did it – give you a turn?”

“It did, a bit. But I had a job to do, or so Sherlock kept telling me. And I admit I was more than a little distracted being astonished by his deductions.” He reached out and took my hand. “Genie, you shouldn’t be embarrassed if seeing that dead woman tonight gave you a bad moment. It’s normal. It’d almost be worrisome if you just took it all in stride and never had a second thought about it.”

“Sherlock took me there on purpose, didn’t he? So I’d know what it was like.” I flopped down on my stomach. “I feel like I failed a test or something.”

“Oh, no. Not remotely. Honestly, you did far better than most would do seeing a dead body up close for the first time. I’m sure if you went to another crime scene, you’d be able to focus and do the work just fine.” He hesitated a moment. “Sherlock was very impressed.”

“Impressed? He had to carry me from the room!”

“Nonsense. He described it as a ‘slight swoon.’ He also said that one of your observations was key to the solution. Something about toenails?”

I smiled. “I’m sure he would have seen it himself, too.”

“Oh, Genie. Welcome to my world. I constantly ask myself what my utility is at these crime scenes, noticing things that he’d inevitably see for himself.”

“What is it, then?”

“Genius needs an audience. It’s the least I can do. And after all this time, I am still astonished by him.”

He kissed me goodnight then, and left me to my chess openings. I keep thinking about the woman in the kitchen, and all the other dead people that all three of my parents make their livings around. I wonder how many there have been. And how many more there would be if any of the three of them weren’t in the world.


	8. 3 November

**The Blog of Eugenia H. Watson, Scared Pantsless**

 _3 November_

I am writing this entry on my tablet from some room inside one of Mycroft’s houses. I don’t know where. Somewhere near Hull, I think. The car that brought us here had blacked-out windows. Mum is pacing back and forth. She keeps looking at the windows. They’re covered with heavy curtains and she wants to look outside, I can tell, but we were told not to do that and she’s trying to do as she’s told.

I’m really scared.

Today started normally. It’s Friday and I was looking forward to the weekend. Girls only. Dad was dragging Sherlock out of town for a mini-break. I teased him about wanting a romantic getaway and he blushed and fidgeted in a way that let me know that’s exactly what he was hoping for. So it was just going to be me and Mum. Aunt Adele was going to come over tomorrow and take us to some fabulous runway show full of designers and celebrities – I was hoping for Keira Knightley because I would soooo go gay for her – and then we were going to have a posh dinner and go to the cinema.

I guess that’s all off now.

I got home at the usual time. Dad and Sherlock were gone. I went over to Zack’s for awhile and played Sims, by the time I got home Mum was there. She said that Nana P had invited us over for dinner, which is fantastic because it means I get to play with Nana and Grandpa’s dogs. I was going upstairs to get my jumper when my mobile went off. Text message. I heard Mum’s go off at the same time. I thumbed open the message and saw one word.

ACHILLES

I just stared at it for a second. “Genie!” I heard Mum shout. That broke my paralysis.

“Yeah, Mum! I see it!”

“Get your bag, NOW.” I heard her running footsteps going to her own room. I ran to my cupboard and dug in the back for the bag I’ve kept packed there, as per instructions. It has two changes of clothes, basic toiletries, a bare-bones tablet computer, a burner mobile and (because it’s me) a travel chess set. I found it and tossed it over my shoulder, jammed my feet into shoes and ran downstairs. Mum was waiting for me in the lounge. “Come on, come on,” she said, motioning to me. We ran down the steps and Mum opened the front door.

There was a large man standing there. My heart crammed itself into my throat. _Oh god, we weren’t fast enough,_ I thought. But then he spoke. “Ask me a question,” he said.

I didn’t know what he was talking about, but Mum seemed to. She thought for a moment. “What is our daughter’s middle name?”

The man cocked his head. I realized that he was listening in an earpiece. “He says it’s Holmes.”

Mum nodded. “All right.”

The man stood aside and we got into the backseat of a black car with darkened windows. Mum pulled me close and hugged me tight as we drove away. I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t have to.

This is the downside of being part of a family that includes the world’s only consulting detective.

That word ACHILLES. It’s a code word. Mycroft’s idea. It means that me and Mum need to get somewhere safe, because somebody is threatening us (or more likely me) to try and strongarm Dad or Sherlock. That probably sounds super dramatic. I guess it is. But Dad and Sherlock – well, they seem ordinary to me, and most of the time life is just mundane, but every so often they tangle with people who are hardcore. People who’d kill them, people who’d kill _us_ just to hurt them. If the word goes out, then we get taken to a safe place. That way Dad and Sherlock can do what they have to do without worrying about me and Mum being hurt or kidnapped or something.

What no one mentions is that they still have to worry about each other. And God knows the quickest way to get Sherlock in a bad spot would be to hurt Dad, or threaten to. It’d also be the quickest way to earn his undying wrath. Sherlock doesn’t get really mad very often. When he does, I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of it. I’ve no doubt that anybody who dared hurt Dad would find themselves well and truly fucked over a dozen different ways from Sunday.

I guess some people would think that I must live my life in a state of paralyzing fear that somebody might kidnap me to get at my dads. Funny thing is that while I have my anxious moments, you just can’t exist in that state all the time. And oddly, knowing about these precautions makes me feel safer. There’s always danger in the world. At least mine has a contingency plan.

I’ve known about the word for as long as I can remember. I can’t remember it ever going out before. Mum says it happened one other time, when I was like four or something. I asked Sherlock once if he had many enemies who could make things bad enough that we’d need the word. “None,” he said. “I’ve dealt with all the ones who matter.” The way he said that was a bit – ominous. I didn’t ask any follow-ups.

But the word had now gone out. Something was wrong. “Dad and Sherlock didn’t go on a mini-break, did they?” I finally asked.

Mum sighed. “Well, it started out that way.”

“Is Dad okay?”

“I’m sure he’s fine, sweetheart. Your Dad is much tougher than he looks.”

“I know. But…”

“Shh, Genie. Everything’s going to be okay. We’re going someplace safe and Dad and Sherlock will meet us there as soon as they can.” She hugged me tighter.

We got here – wherever here is – and were hurried inside and upstairs to a big bedroom suite with two big beds and a telly and a little kitchen in the corner. It’s quite posh, really.

Then, the waiting started.

Mycroft showed up before too long. He barely got in the door before we were both on him. “Where’s my dad? And Sherlock?” I demanded. Mum was asking him pretty much the same questions.

“Tut tut,” he said, putting up his hands. “I’ve just come to see about your – accommodations. Are you comfortable?”

“I’ll not be comfortable until I know what’s going on,” Mum said. She was completely calm. I envied her that, because I felt like I was about to jump out of my skin.

“I’m afraid I’ve little information to give you,” Mycroft said.

“You mean little that you’re willing to give us.”

“All I know is that I received a message from John asking me to send the word. He stayed in touch long enough for you to verify your transport, then he signed off. I’ve no idea where he and Sherlock are right now.”

“You’re asking me to believe that you don’t have complete knowledge of your own brother’s whereabouts at all times?” Mum said.

“Honestly, it doesn’t much matter if you believe it or not, Grace. Measures are being taken to ensure your safety and Genie’s. My brother will deal with whatever – difficulties – have arisen on his own. If he requires my assistance he will have it.”

Mum pulled me in front of her and wrapped her arms around my shoulders from behind. “Well, I appreciate the security for Genie. If you have contact with John, please tell him that we are fine and he mustn’t worry about us.”

“I don’t think any power on earth could stop him from worrying,” Mycroft said. “But I’ll relay the message.” He swooped out.

I relaxed a little. “I know he’s Sherlock’s brother,” I said, “but is it bad if that guy gives me the creeps?”

Mum laughed. “It’s not bad, honey. I think he means to. He’s not a bad man. Just – pragmatic.”

I hung on to her arms where they were around my shoulders. “Mum – is Dad all right? What if he’s…”

“Shhh,” she said, turning me about. I was getting a bit emotional, I don’t mind confessing it. “C’mon, let’s just try and find some dinner, eh? Guess Nana and Grandpa won’t be seeing us tonight.”

I was bracing myself for whatever Mum would attempt to cook when there was a knock at the door, and a man in a suit came in with trays of amazing-looking food. We shamelessly gorged ourselves, and then Suit Man came back to collect the dishes. I could get used to this, actually.

It was getting on toward night by then. I sat on one of the beds and got out my scar cream. “Here, let me,” Mum said. She sat with my leg in her lap and rubbed the cream in, taking her time about it. I saw her brow furrow a little bit as her fingers pressed in on the scar. It can’t be a pleasant reminder for her. For me it’s just a big unsightly scar on my leg that I’m horribly self-conscious about. Not much for shorts and skirts, is this girl. I mean, it’s seriously ugly. It’s pitted in the middle and then there are slashes on either side with stitch-marks. Dad says it’ll likely keep fading as I get older. I keep rubbing in that cream, every night, because it’s supposed to help minimize the scar and hope springs eternal.

My memories of the accident that left the scar are pretty fuzzy. I remember being cold. I remember wanting my Mummy. I remember the stars above me, branches and the wind in the trees. Then I remember Sherlock finding me. I heard his big boomy voice and I remember at first I thought I was dreaming it. He picked me up and my leg hurt really bad and I cried and cried because I was so glad to see him and I hung on tight around his neck. He carried me out and I remember Dad yelling my name, then he was crying and holding me and I was squished between him and Sherlock and it was like a heavenly safe cave. Then there’s just a lot of hospitals and brightness and pain and Mummy sitting by my bedside and the next clear memory I have is of going home with Mum and Dad and getting carried everywhere for awhile.

We just sat there on the big bed, my scar ritual complete. “Well, what now? Bit of telly?” she said.

I sat on one of the beds, folding my legs under me. “How about we just – talk?” I said. I couldn’t pass it up. My mother and I were locked in a room together with no danger of interruption. This was my big chance for straight answers.

She eyed me knowingly. “Talk, huh?” She came to the bed and sat opposite me, mirroring my posture. “I bet I know what you want to talk about.”

“You do?”

“Genie, you’re sixteen years old. You’re almost an adult. You’re frighteningly intelligent and you’re deadly curious about everything. You’ve grown up in an – unconventional family. I’ve seen you watching, trying to work things out. I know you’ve got questions.”

“Yeah, Mum. I do.”

“Your dad and I have talked about this. You’re old enough to start hearing the real answers. So go ahead. Ask me whatever you like. I promise to tell you the truth.”

I was a bit taken aback. I hadn’t expected her to just lay her cards on the table like that. It threw me off my game a little, I couldn’t remember where I’d planned to start. So I just fell back on the question I’d asked Dad a few weeks ago. “Why haven’t you ever gotten remarried?”

She sighed and looked down at her hands. Mum wore a ring on her wedding finger but it wasn’t the ring Dad had given her, it was her grandmother’s ring. A family heirloom. It did, however, give the impression that she was married. “Because I’ve never found another man like your father,” she said.

My heart sank. “Oh, Mum. You’re still in love with him?” I really hoped that wasn't it, because if it was, then I'd be in the uncomfortable position of wanting my Dad to go back to her, while also wanting him to stay with Sherlock forever.

“That isn’t what I said.”

“Oh,” I said, confused. “I don’t get it.”

She smiled. “I love your father very much, Genie. He’s – well, honestly, he’s my best friend in the whole world, and I love him the way you love your best friend.” She thought for a moment. “I was thirty-six when I met him. I’d never had a long-term relationship in my life. I was never the sort of woman who desperately wanted a man and babies and did whatever she had to do to get it. I had my work, and my friends and family, and I dated on occasion but it never lasted more than a few months. I was quite content to be single, and to remain so.”

“But why?” I said. “You’re fantastic, I can’t imagine men not wanting to be with you!”

“Thank you, sweetheart,” she said, grinning. “But I’m not – let’s just say I have limitations. Serious ones. Ones that men are always willing to overlook at first blush but can’t handle long-term.”

“What do you mean, limitations?” I couldn’t imagine my mother having some kind of emotional handicap so severe that it doomed her to solitude. “Is it a…” I cleared my throat and blushed. But hey, if this was a grown-up conversation, it was going to be one. “Is it a sex thing?”

“No, it isn’t a sex thing.”

“What, then?”

She sighed deeply. “Oh, Genie. You must allow me to keep some measure of privacy.”

I grit my teeth but let that go. “All right, so you had this mysterious limitation, and somehow Dad was the only one who could handle it. And now you don’t think you’d be able to find another man who could.”

“Exactly.”

“That’s – that’s horrible.”

“It’s not so horrible. I rather love my life, actually. I have you, and your father and yes, even Sherlock. I love what I do and I’m near my family.” She gave me a wry smile. “And if my future were to possibly involve a date with a certain handsome police inspector, well – that might be acceptable, too.”

I grinned. “Brilliant!”

She leaned forward a bit. “So we’ve got that out of the way. Why don’t you ask me what you really want to ask me?”

I nodded. “Mum, when – when did you suspect that Dad was – well…”

“In love with Sherlock?”

“Yeah.”

She scooted closer and took my hands. “This is the part I’m not sure you’re going to want to hear.”

“Why not?”

“I’m…” She looked me in the eyes. “I don’t want you to think less of me, or your father.”

“I won’t. C’mon, Mum. I know that you and Dad are people, like flesh and blood people. Don’t we all have bits and bobs that aren’t so shiny?”

She laughed. “Artistically phrased as always. All right, then. You want to know when I suspected that Dad was in love with Sherlock?” I nodded. “I didn’t suspect, luv. I knew. I knew on the day you were born, I knew the day I married him. I knew on our very first date.”

My face went slack. “All that time? You knew all that time?”

“Yes.”

And just like that, I knew the truth. _Her_ truth.

But I can’t write it down tonight. I am so tired I think I’m going to pass out. I’ll have all day tomorrow to write about the rest of our talk, and I’m getting worried again about Dad and Sherlock because we were hoping we’d have a message from them and so far, nothing. I need sleep. Mum’s already asleep in one of the beds. I don’t care if I’m a bit old for it, I think I’m going to curl up next to my Mummy and hope I don’t dream about dead fathers.


	9. 4 November

**The Blog of Eugenia H. Watson, Grandmaster Flash**

 _4 November_

I dreamed about Mum and Dad’s wedding last night.

I wasn’t there, of course. Well, actually – yes, I was. I was an unacknowledged guest. Yes, I was conceived out of wedlock. Gasp, shock, scandal. Whatever. Mum and Dad had been dating about six months when oops. Surprise! Genie en route. They got married a month later. I’ve seen the photos. It was a small to-do in the church Mum went to as a girl. Fifty-odd guests, almost all of them Mum’s invites. I’ve got one photo I keep in a frame in my room. Mum’s in this light blue dress, not very bridal but very chic. Dad’s in a suit that actually fits him. Sherlock’s next to Dad and Aunt Adele is next to Mum. Everyone is smiling except Sherlock. He has this look on his face like this is the most tiresome thing he’s ever done in his life. I bet it was, for a variety of reasons.

But in my dream it was one of those big Westminster affairs with ten bridesmaids and fluffy meringue dresses. Mum and Dad are done up like it’s a state occasion. Sherlock is officiating, in that tall hat the bishop wears. Then just before the bit with the ring, everyone started dancing like it was a masquerade ball, and then I was there but I was only in my knickers and oh my god, bleach please to cleanse my neurons.

I do remember Dad and Sherlock’s wedding. I was ten. There weren’t much to it. We all just went down to the registry office. The only other people there were me and Mum and Mrs. Hudson, and Mycroft, and Aunt Harry. Dad was all glowy. He denies it and will continue to do so till his dying breath, but Sherlock got a little teary-eyed during the whole vows bit. I was there. I saw it. He can’t squirm his way out of it.

And yes, I’m aware that I’m writing about happy memories to avoid thinking about the fact that I am stuck in a room in a safe house and I have no idea where Dad and Sherlock are. Wouldn’t you avoid it too, if you were in my spot?

I’ll distract myself by setting down the rest of my rather epic conversation with Mum last night.

So she told me that she’d known, the entire time she’d been with Dad, that he was in love with Sherlock. She told me this calmly, almost relieved, like she was glad to be getting this off her chest. Just the way she said it, it got put together in my head with some of the things Dad told me in the park a few weeks back.

And yeah. The science of deduction. I got the picture.

“Oh my god, you have one, too,” I said.

She looked a little confused. “One what?”

“A Sherlock. You have your own Sherlock.” Just saying it, I knew it was true. I’d always felt like there was a blank spot in Mum’s life. Something I didn’t know, because she didn’t talk about it.

Mum looked a bit stunned. “Genie, how…”

“Dad told me that you two got on so well because there were things you understood and accepted about each other. You just told me you have limitations that no one could ever understand, except Dad. And you married him despite knowing that he had a pretty big limitation himself. Why else would you have done that, unless you had the same limitation?”

She watched my face for a moment, then shook her head with a rueful smile. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

“Am I right?”

“Of course you are.” She sighed. “One of the things that made your father and I such a good fit for each other was that we were both of us quite mad in love with someone else, someone impossible that we couldn’t have.” She looked me straight in the eye. “But that doesn’t mean that we couldn’t love each other, and couldn’t be happy together, because we did and we were. Please, you must understand that.”

I nodded. I sort of did. “That’s just – sort of sad and happy at the same time,” I said.

“Yes. Yes, it is.” She took a big breath and let it out before she spoke again. “He had dated women, just like I’d tried to date, too, but it never worked out because he could never give them all of himself. Eventually they all realized that Sherlock always came first. The men I dated would always come to demand more of me than I had to give. Your father never asked that of me, nor I of him, because we both knew the score. We never asked each other to choose. It was something we never really had to discuss. We just recognized our brokenness in each other. We were like a couple of lame horses, but if we hitched ourselves together we could pull the wagon and ease the burden.”

I held tight to my mother’s hands. I was a bit blown over by the pain I could see in her eyes now that she was letting me see it. “Who is he, Mum? Who’s this person you couldn’t have?”

She swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, darling. I can’t talk about him.”

“Do I know him?”

“No. And please, don’t ever worry that someday I will run off to be with him. I won’t. I can’t.”

“Do you – see him? Talk to him?”

She sighed, and I could tell she didn’t want to talk about him, but she was going to for my sake. “No, I don’t. I haven’t seen him since before I married your father. I know it probably seems rather pathetic that I can’t let go of him. The sad truth is that there are things that people just don’t recover from. Or at least, one thing that I never have. Maybe it’s a character flaw.” She swiped at her eyes. “Sometimes I was even envious of your father. At least he got to _see_ his, talk to him, be part of his life. I said that to him once, and he looked at me and said ‘Trust me, Grace. You’ve got the better deal.’”

I frowned. “But – I don’t understand. You said you and Dad both had people you couldn’t be with. Why couldn’t he be with Sherlock? I mean, he is now! What changed?”

“Well, that’s the rub, isn’t it? That’s the only thing that gave me pause about marrying him. Your father was in pretty deep denial about Sherlock for a long time, luv. Not really about how he himself felt – he knew it in his heart even if he didn’t acknowledge it – but about Sherlock. He had convinced himself that Sherlock could never be in any kind of a relationship, that he wouldn’t accept it, that he could never be anything but a friend and colleague. I knew he was wrong. I could see that Sherlock loved your father. But John believed it was impossible because he had to. Because it was him who wasn’t ready for it, not Sherlock. And if he let himself think that Sherlock might be capable of returning his feelings, then he’d have to actually deal with it.”

“So when did he wake up?” She just looked at me. “It was my accident, wasn’t it?”

Mum patted my leg. “Yes. But that’s a story for another day, sweetheart.”

My head was spinning with all this new information. “Mum, I – I feel so bad for you.”

“Why?”

“Well, you love somebody you can’t be with, then you find someone you can be with and you lose him to someone else.” My eyes filled with tears, abruptly. I suppose all the upheaval was making be a bit overemotional. “You deserve better.”

“Don’t you pity me, Genie,” she said, suddenly emphatic. “My choices have been my own, and I’ve made them all with my eyes wide open. And you don’t know what I deserve.”

I blinked, my eyes wide. “What does _that_ mean?”

She collected herself and brushed it aside. “I just mean that I thought I’d be going through life alone. My – handicap, let’s say, would doom me to solitude. I was all right with that. I’ve never needed companionship like others do. I married your father with the full awareness that I was only borrowing him, Genie. But the time we were together was more than I ever thought I’d have, and he gave me you, and that was more than I ever thought I’d have, too. And now I have a beautiful daughter, and John is my closest, dearest friend, and even Sherlock is like a brother to me – an insufferable brother, to be sure, but one I’m glad to have. That isn’t to say I’ve never been sad, or upset, or even resentful about it. But on the whole, I think I’ve come out rather ahead.”

I just sat there, dizzy with the awareness that my mother has had an entire internal life of her own, one that has nothing to do with me or Dad or anyone else. I suppose I’d known that, but there’s knowing it and then there’s feeling it. “I’m sort of stunned right now,” I managed.

She pulled me close and hugged me. “Oh, darling. I hope none of this has been too upsetting. I never wanted you to feel like your family was freakish, or that your parents were strange.”

“I think that ship has sailed, Mum.”

She laughed. “I suppose so. Just – are you upset? You can tell me if you are. It’s okay if you’re mad at Dad or me or Sherlock, it’s normal.”

“I’m not mad. I’m just – you know, society has all these expectations about who I ought to be mad at in this situation and none of them really fit the reality. But then I’m sort of used to that.”

“Me, too. I’ve spent the last ten years or so explaining that no, I’m really not bitter and hateful towards my husband who left me for a man. The looks I’ve gotten when I add in that you and I _live_ with them are really quite priceless.”

I giggled. “I bet they are. I guess people don’t expect that anyone could be a grownup about the situation.”

Mum went quiet for a moment. “I enjoy it a bit, actually.”

“Enjoy what?”

“Shocking people. Confounding all their prim little notions of propriety.”

“Mum, are you some sort of punk-rock divorcee?”

She burst out laughing. “Perhaps just a hipster divorcee. I’ve got an unconventional family, you wouldn’t have heard of it.”

I dissolved into mad giggles at that. We were both still laughing when Suit Man came in with lunch. That sobered me up fast, being a reminder of the situation we’re still in.

So Mum and I ate lunch and then the tedium set in again. We watched some telly. Mum was itching for the Internet, but no connection in here. I think I might take a kip, just to pass the time.

 _later_

All right then, clearly my taking a kip is a magic spell to set things right and I should do it in the future whenever something stressful is going on.

I was woken up by someone shaking my shoulder. I opened my eyes and it was _DAD!_ YAY! I think I made some sort of embarrassingly squeaky noise and flung myself at him. I babbled for a moment, asking a bunch of questions that all tumbled over each other, until he finally shushed me so he could answer.

“I’m okay, everything’s fine, I’m not leaving again, you’re in no danger anymore, things are being taken care of.”

I flopped onto my back with a big sigh. “I’d very much like it if we didn’t do this again soon,” I said.

Dad nodded, his jaw going tight. “Second,” he said.

“What happened?” Relief made me want to know everything now.

Dad just shook his head. “You really don’t need to know.”

“But I _want_ to know.”

He cocked his head at me. “Now, remember what Uncle Mick says. You can’t always…”

“…get what you want,” I finished, rolling my eyes. Uncle Mick was one of our oldest little jokes and part of Dad’s plan to parent me via Rolling Stones lyrics.

It was at this point that I realized something was missing. I looked around the room. “Where’s Sherlock?”

Dad grit his teeth a bit. “He’ll be along in a few hours. I hope.”

I knew why his smiles weren’t reaching his eyes, then. “Is he…he isn’t off doing something daft, is he?”

“He’d better not be. Just tidying up, you might say.”

“You should have stayed with him until the tidying up was done!”

“We agreed I ought to come make sure our girls were all right,” he said, glancing up at Mum. She had her arms wrapped around her midsection and was smiling at him. “Really, luv, he’s fine. He’ll be here soon.”

“And then can we go home?” The thought was too seductive.

He exchanged a glance with Mum. “I’m afraid not. There’s yet a bit more tidying, you might say. We’ll need to stay here till the morning.”

“Oh.” I shrugged. “Well, at least we’ll all be here together. That’s something.”

Dad and I played cards. Mum read a book on her e-reader. I tried to get Dad to play chess with me, but in his words, it’d be like Sherlock playing Cluedo against the neighbor’s cat.

I wanted to pass the time, but I also wanted to keep Dad distracted. He kept glancing at the door and his jawline had that squared-off look it gets when he’s being stoic. He was worried about Sherlock.

So it was a relief to everyone when the door to our little hideaway opened around three in the afternoon and he swooped in, looking none the worse for wear. I jumped off the bed to hug him, which he tolerated. “Where’ve you _been?_ ” I scolded him.

“Taking out the rubbish,” he said, darkly. He and Dad were having a bit of an intense exchange of looks. They reached out and clasped hands as Sherlock walked by, but nothing more. Sherlock went to the window and peeked between the drapes. “I trust John’s informed you of the duration of our stay?”

“Yes, but why?” Mum asked. “If there’s no further threat…”

“Well, that’s just it,” Sherlock said. “That’s what’s being assured as we speak.”

“Oh,” she said.

Sherlock made a frustrated, growly sort of noise in the back of his throat. “It’s been determined by people who seem to think themselves in charge that John and I ought to absent ourselves from some of the more hazardous endgames being played out. Leave them in the hands of those who don’t have our – responsibilities.”

“I think that sounds like an excellent idea,” Mum said.

“I cannot throw down the gauntlet and then scurry off into the shadows while others pick it up!” Sherlock exclaimed.

“Stop it,” Dad said, flat and emphatic. “We’ve been over this. You can’t risk yourself. You are too valuable. No one else has your brain. And I’d prefer not to risk my own neck, either. Not if others better suited to it can take over.”

“Better suited? How?”

“How about younger, Sherlock? I hate to bruise your vanity, but you and I are a ways off from chasing cabbies through London alleys, you know.”

“I’ll not be treated like spun glass, John,” he said, his eyes blazing.

“No. But today, now, you’ll exercise some caution.”

They stared each other down for a long few beats, then Sherlock sagged a bit and ran a hand through his hair. “Well, it’s pointless to argue the matter now.”

Dad smiled. “Good. I’m dying for a shower, myself.”

So Sherlock calmed down a bit, though he’s been out of sorts all evening, we found a Doctor Who marathon on the telly, and Mycroft let us have the Internet again, which made Mum happy. Dad and Sherlock have had a few updates from outside that seemed to reassure them, and we’re all to go home in the morning. Until then, it’s a bit like sleepaway camp. With my parents.

You know, for most kids, that’d be like hell. I guess I’m not like most kids.


	10. 5 November

**The Blog of Eugenia H. Watson, Lord of the Dance**

_5 November_

We’re home. Nobody’s dead. I think that’s all any of us are really asking for right now.

Family Sleepaway Camp ended up as a bit of a bonding experience. We watched the Doctor Who marathon. Sherlock prowled about the room, glued to his mobile, looking out the window and being generally squirrelly. Eventually Mum and I fell asleep on one of the beds.

I came awake in the middle of the night, just past two a.m. I didn’t move, just let my eyes open a tiny slit. Dad was dozing on top of the covers on the other bed, propped up against the headboard with a bunch of pillows. Sherlock was still standing by the window. He’d opened the drapes a bit so he could look out, and the moonlight painted his whole outline in silver.

Dad woke up, too, shifting a bit on top of the duvet. I kept very still. Maybe they’d talk about what had happened, and I’d get some kind of clue about what we’d escaped. “Sherlock,” he said, a very low whisper so as not to wake us. Sherlock turned from the window. Dad extended one arm toward him. “C’mon. Lie down for awhile.”

Sherlock sighed. Sleep is for the weak, I bet he was thinking. I could read fatigue in the hunch of his shoulders, though. He ought to listen to his doctor.

He did. He took off his jacket and sat down on the edge of the bed, his back to me and to Dad. He looked back over his shoulder at him, then finally turned and stretched out on the bed, toeing off his shoes. He curled into Dad’s side and laid his head on his chest, his arm slung across his waist. Dad wrapped one arm about his shoulders, his hand going into Sherlock’s hair. They settled against each other with the ease of long practice and deep familiarity.

Sherlock’s eyes were wide open. His hand was making little absent-minded stroking motions on Dad’s stomach. “It isn’t over,” he whispered.

“I know.”

“It’ll never be over, John. Not as long as I am what I am.”

“Shh.”

Sherlock went quiet. Dad rested his cheek against Sherlock’s forehead. “I would understand, you know,” Sherlock finally said.

“Understand what?”

“If it were too much. If you took them and…”

“Left you? You’re off your trolley.”

“John. They’re your family.”

“Our family.”

Sherlock sighed. “If anything ever happened to Genie…”

“Nothing will. She’s fine, look. She’s asleep.”

I wasn’t. But God, please let them not realize it. Sherlock really ought to have done. I guess he was a little preoccupied.

Sherlock stayed quiet for little while again. “I would retire if you asked me to,” he finally whispered, almost too low for me to hear him.

Dad sighed. “I know. That’s why I’ll never ask. You’ll retire when you’re ready, not before.” He paused. “You promised me a long time ago that you’d make sure Genie and Grace stayed safe. You’ve never broken that promise.”

“Nor shall I.” Dad pulled him closer and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s forehead. Sherlock shut his eyes, then tilted his head up. Dad leaned down and got his lips. Sherlock pulled back a little. “Surely we’re not too old for this?” he murmured.

Dad made a face. “If we ever get too old for this, shoot me.” He angled his face down to kiss Sherlock again.

Sherlock chuckled, low in his chest. “I meant for the work, John.”

Dad thought about that for a moment. “No. I think we’re just old enough to keep getting away with being this old.”

“That made no sense at all.”

“This is what you get when you make me talk while my mind’s otherwise occupied.” Sherlock smirked and slid his hand up around Dad’s neck and nudged at his face. Dad hesitated, looking down at him. “God, I love you,” he whispered. A little shiver went over me at the way he said it, like he was still amazed by it, and that he got to say it out loud. Sherlock pulled him down and they kissed again. Which was my cue to let my eyes close, not only because I don’t need to still be watching when tongues get involved, but because clearly they weren’t going to talk about what I wanted to know.

When I woke up again I must have twitched or made a noise, because Dad was looking across at me. He and Sherlock were more or less in the same position on top of the duvet, Dad had slid down a bit and Sherlock was asleep tucked close to his side, his head on Dad’s shoulder. All clothing was sorted; they wouldn’t have done more than snog a bit, not with me and Mum in the next bed. “You all right?” Dad whispered to me.

I nodded. “Restless.”

“Bad dreams?”

I decided not to tell him about the weird dream I’d had about his and Mum’s wedding. “Maybe,” I said.

He held out a hand and beckoned me over. “C’mere.”

I clambered off the bed and went over to his. Moving quietly so as not to disturb Sherlock, I climbed on and cuddled up to Dad’s other side. He put his arm around me and you know, I might be sixteen years old, but there’s no feeling of safety quite like snuggling with my Dad. He kissed the top of my head. “How will you sleep with both of us squashing you?” I whispered.

He smiled. I felt it against my hair. “No place I’d rather be, sweetheart.”

I was asleep in no time.

When I woke up for the third and final time, it was morning. And somehow, while I was sleeping, Mum had made her way over to the Communal Bed as well and was now asleep curled up behind me, one arm stretched across me with her hand on Sherlock’s forearm where it was lying on Dad’s chest. So there we all were, in one big sleepy pile.

I just laid there, surrounded on all sides by my most important people. I have vague, happy memories of climbing into bed with Mum and Dad when they shared one. I used to do it to Dad and Sherlock, too, on the rare occasions that I’d catch Sherlock actually sleeping in a bed. One gets too old for such things, I suppose, but I don’t think I could ever outgrow wanting that warm security.

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at me across Dad’s chest. He smiled a bit, reached up and ruffled my hair. This woke Dad, who sort of squeezed both of us on reflex, then I felt Mum come awake behind me. Nobody said anything for awhile, we just lay there being half-awake en masse.

Dad broke the silence. “Not that I don’t adore both of you, but my ruddy arms are asleep,” he said.

Sherlock sat up, chuckling. “You could have said.” He picked up Dad’s arm and rubbed at his shoulder a bit to get the blood going again.

“I’m not moving,” I grumbled. “Too comfy.”

Mum rolled to her feet and stretched, her shirt all wrinkled up. “What time is it?” she said, half-lost in a yawn.

“Half seven,” Dad said. I suddenly realized that I’d been sleeping on Dad’s bad shoulder.

“Oh crikey, Dad, your shoulder,” I said, sitting up.

“It’s all right.” He hitched himself up in the bed, flexing his shoulder and wincing a bit.

Sherlock frowned. “You okay?” he asked, in a low voice.

Dad nodded. “Just want to get out of here.”

Like he’d been waiting for a cue, the door opened and Suit Man brought us breakfast and the news that we’d be taken home at nine o’clock, because the coast was clear. Dad’s face smoothed out a bit upon hearing that.

And here we are. Sherlock vanished almost immediately. After being in each other’s laps all day, he’d no doubt need some time to be a crotchety hermit and restore his sense of self. I think we were all feeling a bit solitary this afternoon. I spent most of it in my room. I didn’t hear the telly, which meant Mum was probably in her office. I didn’t see Dad or Sherlock all day.

Dad finally came to my room just before supper. “Me and Sherlock are going round for Chinese,” he said. “D’you want to come? Or would you rather stay in with your mum?”

I thought for a moment. “Think I’ll stay in. Not that hungry.”

He hesitated. “I hear you and Mum had – quite a talk.”

“We did.” I sighed. “Look, Dad, I’m not sure I really want to talk about it with you just now. Give me some downtime, all right?”

He nodded. “All right.”

I reconsidered. “Could be I have one question, though.”

He came all the way in and sat down on the end of my bed. “What’s that, then?”

“It’s sort of – personal.”

“You’re my daughter, Genie. Doesn’t get much more personal than that. I reserve the right not to answer, though.”

“Fair enough.” I paused, wondering how to phrase it, then decided just to go for the direct approach. “Are you even gay?”

To my amazement, Dad smiled. “I’ve been waiting for that question for years. What took you so long?”

I shrugged. “I dunno. Never really occurred.”

“But now?”

“I mean, you were married to Mum for eight years. And now she’s told me that you dated women before her, but it never worked out.”

“True.”

“It never worked out because of Sherlock.”

“Indirectly, yes.”

“Did you ever date any other men besides him?”

“Date? No.” He looked at me, thoughtful, like he was deciding how much I really wanted to hear. “I’m married to a man. To the world, that means I’m gay.”

“C’mon, Dad. That wasn’t my question.”

“I know it wasn’t.” He sighed. “I don’t know, sweetheart. Sherlock is the sort of person who makes all the rules null and void, and suddenly what you thought you knew about yourself doesn’t matter anymore because he’s got you redefining everything.”

“Okay, I’m going to make this simple. Had you ever kissed a bloke before him?”

“Yes.” He paused. “I was in the Army for a long time, and when you’re deployed and around a bunch of men, well – let’s just say that most of us had those sorts of experiences. But I didn’t think of myself as leaning that way. Looking back, I don’t know how true that is. It took me a long time to get my head around how I felt about Sherlock, but it wasn’t the fact that he was a man that gave me the trouble. It was more that he was – well, how he is, and I thought that what I wanted was impossible. I suppose it says something that it wasn’t his gender that was the trip-up.” He shrugged. “I stopped worrying about it years ago. I love Sherlock. Full stop. Him being a bloke is rather incidental.” He smirked. “Although I admit I do rather fancy that Adrien Brody chap. So make of that what you will.”

“You fancy him because he reminds you of Sherlock.”

“Does he? Huh. I suppose they are rather of a type, aren’t they?”

“You fancy Rachel Weisz, too.”

“Oh my, she is a dish, isn’t she?” Dad grinned. “But then she’s always reminded me of your mother.”

I blew air through my teeth, a bit frustrated. “But, Dad – Sherlock being a bloke can’t be incidental. I mean, it’s right there in your face!” I flushed. “Oh God, that sounded rather improper. You know what I mean.”

He nodded. “Your aunt Harry has always said that no man who wasn’t at least partly gay could possibly enjoy being intimate with another man. I think she’s probably right about that.”

“So you are, then. Gay, I mean.”

“Genie, I understand your need to make sense of things, and have a way to label them. Some things just don’t take to labels that well. In the end, it doesn’t really matter, does it? I’m well and truly spoken for, and that’s for life. So if my head is turned by a pretty bird on the street, or a handsome bloke on the Tube, or both, it’s just horses for courses.”

I sighed. “People need to come with instruction manuals.”

Dad laughed. “Oh, but what fun would that be?” He fixed me with a proper stare. “Has any of this helped?”

“I don’t know. I suppose so. You’re right, none of it really matters. Except to everyone else in the world.”

“Too right. Because that’s what they see. Now, for instance, I’m going to go fetch my gay husband and go out for gay dinner and eat gay Chinese food and have gay conversation and pay with our gay money while we exist in a constant state of gayness. Or so the world perceives it. To me, I’m just off out for dinner with Sherlock.”

I snickered. “Gay Chinese food?”

“Oh my, yes. Chinese food is so very gay. Didn’t you know?”

“What else is gay that I don’t know about?”

He thought for a moment. “Umm…let me think. Rugby.”

I gasped in mock horror. “Surely not!”

“Completely gay. And long-pull espresso. Also pistachios.”

“Dad, you are blowing my mind right now.”

“It’s a whole new world, Genie. It’s time you learned.”

“What about coffee ice cream?”

“Oh, no. That’s completely hetero. Have I taught you nothing?”

We were both laughing by this time. This went on for awhile, the lists of things that are and are not gay growing longer and longer, until Sherlock finally poked his head in the door, looking annoyed. “John, what’s the hang-up? Are we going for Chinese or not? I’m famished.” He must have thought we’d gone round the bend, as the mere mention of Chinese food set us off cackling again. He just rolled his eyes. “You’re potty, the both of you. I’ll be downstairs, wasting away.” Having spoken, The Shadow departed.

I live in a house full of mad nutters. It’s brilliant.


	11. 8 November

**The Blog of Eugenia H. Watson, Juvenile Delinquent**

 _8 November_

So. This is what it feels like to be one of those kids. You know, the ones always getting dragged to the headmaster’s office, spray-painting train tunnels, getting ASBOs. It’s interesting, in a way. Sort of like going undercover.

I am generally not a troublemaker. I mean, come on. My biggest obsession in life is _chess._ Is there such a thing as a chess hooligan? Hardly the first choice of teenage rebels. My parents have gotten called in for conference with my teachers, but usually it’s been about something I’ve done well, not something I’ve done badly.

So I’m sure my parents were more than a little surprised when they were called in to school today because I had slapped Lilly Bathgate across the face.

Yes, future memoir-readers. I am a violent criminal offender.

You may recall that Lilly Bathgate is my school nemesis. We all seem to have one, like they’re issued to us as standard teenage equipment along with hoodies and earbuds. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of those desperate-loner kids who has no friends and gets harassed mercilessly. I get along pretty well at school. I’ve got close friends. My best friend Metsy, and then there’s Bryn and Marjorie and Delia, plus various satellite friends. Then there’s my non-school friends, like Zack and Colin. There are lots of different ways to be popular at Francis Holland. Being a posh blonde is just the most boring of them. So naturally, this is where Lilly Bathgate’s thrown her lot in, because she isn’t bright enough to think of a more interesting way to distinguish herself besides being a great stonking bitch.

She has a gang of clones who follow her about being even more boring than she is. Their sole purpose in life is to belittle anyone they deem inferior, which is everyone who isn’t them. If you’ve ever gone to school then you know what I mean.

I’m a fairly easy target. I wear secondhand clothes, play chess and have gay dads. Then there’s my scar, which was on extravagant display throughout my years of wearing Francis’s school uniform gray skirt. Not that any of those things are particularly freakish, but they’re enough to mark me as different, which is all that’s required. Those are Lilly’s most frequently-used points of torment.

Normally, I find it pretty easy to ignore her. There are two factors that let me do this.

First, despite her much-displayed status as a posh rich girl with cashmere jumpers and designer handbags, I know that my family’s better off than hers. Lilly’s father is a solicitor who apparently does something evil involving corporations and money, and they live in a des res and have expensive cars and a swotty summer home in the Cotswolds. Fantastic. As far as she knows, I just live in a flat on Baker Street.

What she doesn’t know is that Sherlock owns both 221 and 219. He bought them after getting a rather extravagant payday for having performed an unnamed service for someone royal. Mum and Dad both earn good livings, and Sherlock’s gotten famous enough for what he does that people sometimes hire him who can afford to pay him six figures, which they gladly do because they think it’ll buy his silence. They don’t know that he couldn’t care less about spreading about their dirty little secrets. He doesn’t concern himself with charging for his services, of course. Dad handles all his fees. I think it’s some sort of sliding scale based on income. Sometimes he works for free. He doesn’t care, as long as the case is interesting. But the point is that while we might live pretty modestly, the coffers are full, if you know what I mean.

The second factor that lets me shrug off Lilly is the very satisfying knowledge that I could make one phone call and her father would suddenly find himself working at his firm’s satellite office in Uzbekistan. That thought is what you might call a happy place. So when she starts in on me, I go to that happy place and imagine her tottering down the streets of Uzbekistan in her Louboutins.

I was not in the best of moods today. I had an exam in maths that I knew I was going to bodge up something awful. Also I’d been off my chess game lately. It’s hard to explain to people who don’t play, but sometimes you reach these plateaus in your understanding of the game where you just sort of stagnate until suddenly you hit a new level of awareness and you shoot forward. I was stagnating. The frustration was making my game all dodgy. Leonid had beaten me every game at last night’s lessons.

So there was that. I was also still working through in my head all the new information I had about my mother. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it and I still had so many questions. It was a little distracting. And I was deadly curious about the man Mum had left behind, the one she still loved. I had managed to ask Dad if he knew who he was, and he’d said no. Not sure I believe him. I have not yet asked Sherlock if _he_ knows. I haven’t asked because he almost certainly does know, and I wasn’t sure I really wanted to. Mum hadn’t wanted to tell me. She deserves some privacy, doen’t she? But oh my God the curiosity is killing me.

Such was the distracted state of my brain this morning – Mum, chess, maths -- when Lilly sodding Bathgate decided it was time to wind me up, yet again. As I’ve said, usually I can let it roll off my back. But as I’ve also said, I wasn’t at my best today. Not by a long shot.

I was in the sixth-form common room in search of coffee when she strutted up to me with her lookalike pals. “Morning, Genie,” she said, all sweetness and syrup.

I sighed. Don’t be fooled by the Posh Girl’s innocent appearance and friendly demeanor. She is a master of misdirection. “Lilly,” I said, maintaining an air of neutrality. Not that it would help.

She was sporting a tartan plaid skirt and a cashmere twinset. What a cliché. We’d been back at school for over a month now and I’d not seen her wear the same outfit twice. The ability to wear one’s own clothes was still a bit of a novelty for us. Lilly and I are both sixth formers now, which means we no longer have to wear the hideous Francis Holland school uniform (which features an unflattering shirt of eye-searing pink), so what one is wearing to school is still a matter of conversational import. Today I was wearing cargo pants, an old t-shirt with a Dalek on it and my favorite cardigan. It was nubbly cable-knit with patches sewn on it. I’d found it in a shop on Tottenham Court Road.

“Was that your mum I saw you with this morning?”

“Yes.” Mum had walked with me to school this morning for no particular reason. Sometimes she does that when she’s taking the Tube somewhere first thing.

“Why didn’t she drop you off in a car, then?”

Where was she going with this? “I live around the corner, Lilly.” _As you’re well aware, you dim twat._

“Oh, that’s right. With your gay dads.” She laughed, a bright peal of delighted glee.

I fetched a deep sigh. “Yes. For the millionth time. With my gay dads.”

“And your mum.”

“Would you like me to draw you a flowchart? Yes, with my mum, too.”

“I just didn’t know that they rented flats to freakshows.” More gleeful laughter. Her clones elbowed each other and sniggered.

I glanced around the room. Myra Breckenridge was over by the vending machines. She looked at me and rolled her eyes, making a wank gesture with her left hand. I smirked. Lilly was popular in a surface sort of way, more or less because she declared it to be so and nobody really wanted to contradict her too loudly, but just about everybody thought she was a stroppy cow. “Well, our money spends, us freakshows,” I said.

“Your Mum. She a fag hag too?” Lilly said, her voice dropping a bit.

Fury was bubbling up in my chest in spite of myself. Lilly usually focused most of her unpleasantness on my notoriously gay dads, or on me myself. Mum had not been one of her traditional targets. And given what I’d just found out about my mother, today was not the day to start dragging her into it. “Shut it about my mother,” I snarled.

Mistake. Now she knew she’d found a sore spot. “She’s quite smart, your mum,” Lilly said. “Bet she’s not so keen to have a slobber for a daughter.” She raked her eyes over me. “Nice jumper. Dig that out of the bin, did you?” I just stood there, pretending to be totally focused on my coffee-making. I didn’t trust myself to say anything. “Bet she’d rather not bother with you,” Lilly said. “She’d probably be able to find herself a bloke if she weren’t stuck at home with you and the poofs. Or maybe – maybe she likes it,” she said. “I bet she gets off on it. She stick around because she likes to rub off and watch your dads on the job, then?”

That did it. I snapped. I’d done it before I even realized I was going to.

A bit of an uproar went up in the common room. Lilly staggered back with her hand to her face and my own palm was stinging. _Wait, what? Did that just happen?_

“You _hit_ me!” Lilly exclaimed, a look of astonishment on her face, like she’d thought she was encased in some sort of force field that would shield her from any and all retribution. I’d be willing to bet that nobody had ever laid a hand on Lilly Bathgate in anger in her life. Not a very enlightened response, I know, but I couldn’t help but feel a sort of grim satisfaction at having been the first.

Myra Breckenridge was instantly at my side with one arm wrapped around my shoulders, probably to restrain me in case I decided to have at her again. “Oh shut your face, Lilly, you were bloody asking for it,” she said.

“Did I just do that?” I said.

“You fucking cunt!” Lilly snarled, and made as if to launch herself at me. Her clones held her back, but they didn’t have to hold very hard. It was just for show. No way was Lilly Bathgate going to get into fisticuffs with the likes of me. Not and risk her manicure. “You broke my nose!” she wailed.

“Oh, I did not,” I said. “It isn’t even bleeding.”

“Come on, let’s go to the nurse,” one of her clones said. “And the headmistress!”

I sighed. “Oh, bollocks.”

A little crowd had gathered round me by now. Bryn elbowed her way to the front. “Bloody hell, Genie! What made you finally pop off on her?”

“I don’t know.”

“She said some abominably rude things about Genie’s mum,” Myra said. “Might’ve popped her myself if it were me.”

Bryn shook her head. “Well, you’ll be spending some time in the headmistress’s office today.”

I sank down on the nearest chair. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“You’d just had it,” Myra said, crossing her arms. “It was bound to happen sooner or later.”

“Oh God, Ms. Dunedin’s going to ring my parents,” I groaned, letting my head fall into my hands. “What if I get expelled?”

“You’re not going to get expelled. Remember last year when Kate Mosby and Big Edna got into it on the netball pitch? They just got a stern talking-to and a two-day suspension. And they bloodied each other up a lot worse.”

The common room door opened and the deputy head walked in. She was looking at me with a half-angry, half-bemused expression on her face. “Eugenia, with me,” she said.

“Cor, that didn’t take long,” Bryn muttered.

“You watch yourself. Lilly’s father is some kind of man-eating solicitor,” Myra said.

I smirked. “No worries. In the contest between parental heavyweights it’s advantage Watson. Trust me.”

So there I was in Miss Dunedin’s office. She looked very confused. “Genie, I’m frankly astonished at this behavior from you.”

“Me, too.”

“You’ve never had any kind of disciplinary problem, let alone _fighting,_ ” she said, her lips curling in distaste over the word, as if such a thing were insupportable in her school.

“I wouldn’t call it a fight.”

“Lilly says you struck her.” I didn’t say anything. “Genie, I’m aware of what goes on in my school. I know that Lilly has made you a particular target. She’s been spoken to about her own behavior. I can only assume that she went too far with you today. Nevertheless, your response is completely unacceptable and I can’t condone it.”

“I can’t either, Miss Dunedin.”

She sighed. “Well, I’ve spoken to your father. He’s on his way. Lilly’s parents have requested a meeting between all concerned parties.”

Oh, great. The Bathgates. Maybe we weren’t done with the violence yet today.

Miss Dunedin put me in a lounge to wait. I didn’t have to wait long.

Dad walked in looking like a thunderstorm. He sat down facing me and just stared at me for a moment, like he didn’t know where to start. “Eugenia Watson, please explain to me why I’ve just been called away from work to come deal with the fact that you’ve slapped one of your classmates? I thought someone was having me on for a moment. Surely _my_ daughter wouldn’t do such a thing.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “She pissed me off, Dad.”

“So you _hit_ her? Genie – I don’t even know what to do with that.”

“I didn’t mean to! It just sort of happened! Haven’t you ever been so hacked off that you just sort of lashed out?”

“What on earth did she say to you? Do you really have such a short fuse?”

“It wasn’t just today!” I exclaimed. “Dad, she’s been at me for years! Day in and day out!”

He looked shocked. “What? Are you telling me that you’ve been bullied by this girl for _years_ and you never said anything?”

“What would be the point? I can handle it.”

“Clearly you can’t, if you hauled off and smacked her! What has she been saying to you?”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter! It matters to me! What is she…” He stopped abruptly. I glanced at him and looked away quick, but not quick enough. “Genie – is this my fault?” he said, quietly. “Are you getting teased for having a gay dad?”

“If it weren’t that, it’d be something else, Dad.”

“Oh, Christ,” he said, rubbing his hand over his face. “We thought we’d avoid this by sending you to a girls’ school.”

“Seriously? You thought girls were _less_ likely to torment their peers than boys?” He looked so upset, I damn near forgot about my own possible expulsion. “Dad, kids get teased for all sorts of things. For being fat, or for being crap at sport, or for forgetting the words to the school song at assembly. So I get it for my gay dads. I also get it for my scar and my chess playing.”

“Girls tease you about your scar?” His face was darkening with anger.

“Of course! That’s what I mean! Anything’s fair game.”

“I never would have thought that kind of thing went on at this school. It’s always seemed so nurturing and cooperative. Aren’t you all in some sort of sisterhood with each other?”

“Most of us. And it is. But I don’t think you get four hundred teenage girls together in one spot and escape having a few cracking bitches in the mix.”

“Why, _why_ haven’t you ever told us about this?” His eyes were imploring me.

“You really want to know?” He nodded. “This is why, Dad. Because you’d blame yourself and try to fix it and you can’t. You just can’t. Honestly, it’s none of your business. This is my thing. I can handle it. I can handle it better than some of the girls. You know another of Lilly’s favorite targets? This little fourth-former who’s on support, Maisie Jones. Her mum works as a cleaner, she’s got no dad because the bastard scarpered. The girl’s bloody brilliant. She’s two years ahead at maths and does these amazing watercolor landscapes. But Lilly slags off her shabby clothes and her sparse lunches and it’s gotten so bad that I’ve seen her crying in the loo sometimes. And then she’s got to go home to an empty house because her mum works late shifts cleaning. Sometimes I just want to bring her home with me and cuddle her. She’s who ought to be looked after, not me. I’ve got friends and three whole parents at home and an uncle who could send everyone who looks at me crossways to Siberia. So she can slag off my dads and my mangled leg all she likes if it makes her feel big and important, because stuff her, that’s why. It isn’t fun but I can take it.”

Dad was staring at me. “God, Genie. How are you not ruling the world yet?”

I grinned, but my cheeks heated up. “Give me a few years, Dad. Got to get my driving license first.”

He laughed, but then he seemed to remember why we were here. “What was different today, then? Why’d you go off on her?”

“She started in on Mum,” I said, feeling myself getting angry all over again. “After last weekend I’m feeling a bit protective. She said – some nasty things. I guess it was the last straw.”

Dad nodded. “Well, there are going to be consequences, I’m sure. But I’m also going to make damn sure this situation with this girl is addressed.”

“Just leave it alone, Dad. I’ll take my knocks.”

“I will not leave it alone. You can tell me you can handle it but I’m your father and I won’t sit around and do nothing when my girl’s being harassed daily. I’ll have a word with this girl’s parents, at the least.”

“They’re a pair of toff nightmares, Dad.”

“Great. My favorite kind.”

Just then the door opened and Sherlock swooped in. Can’t he ever enter a room normally? “Who’d you beat up, Genie?” he said, rubbing his hands together in delight. “Is there video?”

Dad executed what I must characterize as a truly cartoon-worthy facepalm.

Before we could brief Sherlock, Miss Dunedin came in and told us that the Bathgates were here, and we should all come to the conference room. I got up, a little knot of dread in the pit of my stomach. “Is Mum coming?” I whispered to Dad, praying she wasn’t.

“She’s in court, I can’t reach her.”

“Good.”

Miss Dunedin and the school counselor were in the conference room with Lilly and her parents. They looked about as you’d imagine they’d look. They all turned and looked at me like I was a bug to be squashed. Dad was eyeing Lilly, who was wearing her best innocent-princess expression. God, she really is a pro. Even her posture was different, making her look smaller and fragile, quite unlike how she usually struts about leading with her chin.

Mr. Bathgate looked primed for confrontation, but Dad’s always one to try diplomacy, so he extended a hand. “Dr. John Watson. I’m Genie’s father.”

Mr. Bathgate hesitated, then shook it, perhaps realizing he’d look like a right tosser if he didn’t. “Reginald Bathgate. This is my wife, Celia.” Mrs. Bathgate nodded stiffly.

“This is my husband, Sherlock Holmes,” Dad said. Mr. Bathgate barely glanced at him. Sherlock just stood there with one eyebrow arched to the heavens.

“Let’s all sit down,” Miss Dunedin said. We all did, Lilly and I both flanked by our parents, directly across the table from one another. Lilly’s face bore no trace of my rather unprofessional blow. I must not have hit her very hard.

Mr. Bathgate wasted no time. “Before anything else is said, I want it very clear that I want this girl expelled for her assault on my daughter. She is a menace.”

Miss Dunedin put out a hand. “Mr. Bathgate, the situation will be addressed, but this is Genie’s first ever disciplinary episode.”

Dad jumped in. “And _I_ would like it addressed that _my_ daughter has been subjected to a nonstop campaign of harassment by _your_ daughter going on several years, Mr. Bathgate.”

Lilly’s father looked legitimately shocked at this. “That is preposterous. My daughter is a model student.”

Miss Dunedin frowned. “On the contrary, Mr. Bathgate, Lilly has been disciplined several times for verbal harassment of other students. Were you unaware of this?”

He flapped a hand like it couldn’t possibly matter. “So some girls have been teased. Who hasn’t? It’s all harmless fun.”

“Harmless fun?” I couldn’t help but put in, astounded. “Is it harmless fun for Maisie Jones to cry in the loo every day? Was it harmless fun when Tobie Markham actually _transferred_ because she couldn’t take the crap she got about her psoriasis every day?”

Miss Dunedin looked astonished. Yeah, she knows what goes on in her school, sure. She doesn’t know the half of it.

“Lilly isn’t responsible for the emotional problems of other girls,” Celia Bathgate said, every word rimmed in ice. She looked from me to Dad to Sherlock. “Dr. Watson, perhaps your daughter would have an easier time among her peers if you provided her with a more _wholesome_ home environment.”

Sherlock chuckled, the first sound he’d made since we entered. Everyone stared at him.

“May I ask what’s funny, Mr. Holmes?” Mr. Bathgate said.

“I find it ironic that your wife is extolling the virtues of a wholesome home environment while she’s having it off with the gardener _and_ her massage therapist. And you, Mr. Bathgate. Have you told your wife that you’re under investigation by Interpol for international securities fraud?”

Rocks fall, everyone dies.

So it took about ten minutes to calm everyone down, during which time Dad had to physically block Mr. Bathgate from attacking Sherlock and Mrs. Bathgate had the phoniest-looking hysterical crying fit I’ve ever seen. Lilly looked mortified, and Miss Dunedin finally had to threaten Mr. Bathgate with being hauled out by security if he didn’t calm down.

In the end I had my afternoon free periods taken away for a week and got a letter put in my file for slapping Lilly, and I’m grounded for two weeks except for school and Leonid. I also have to go to an anger-management class, which is ridiculous but I’ll do it. Lilly has to go to some sort of seminar about why she shouldn’t be a total bleeding monster to everyone. Lilly and I are also to keep our distance from each other. No problem there. Mr. Bathgate made some noises about assault charges, but Sherlock said something quietly into his ear that made him turn white and splutter and back the hell down.

Like I said. In the tournament of parents, I’ve got top seed.

Miss Dunedin thought it’d be a good idea if Lilly and I both went home for the day. Dad, Sherlock and I walked back to Baker Street together. Girls kept giving me the thumbs-up as we left school. I tried to maintain a contrite countenance but it’s going to be hard to keep it up if I’m the new folk hero.

“That was _fun,_ ” Sherlock said, merrily bouncing down Baker street. “Let’s do that every week!”

Dad was still trying to parent me. “Genie, violence is never the answer.”

“I slapped her, Dad. It isn’t like we went ten rounds with brass knuckles.”

“It doesn’t matter. I thought I taught you better than that.”

“You did. I’m not proud of it, Dad. It’s just…” I sighed. “Sometimes you just have to smack a bitch, you know?”

He was startled into brief, reluctant laughter. “I can’t formally endorse that sentiment,” he said.

“John, need I remind you of the times that you yourself have resorted to force?” Sherlock put in, smooth as silk.

“In self-defense! Or defense of bloody idiotic detectives who don’t know better than to get themselves into situations requiring force to resolve!”

“Technicalities.”

We walked up to 221 and up into the lounge. I dropped my bag on the floor and flopped down on the couch. “I’m sorry, Dad. I really am.”

“I know, sweetheart. I’m disappointed in what you did. But…” He sat down next to me and took my hand. “I’m not, I’ll never be, disappointed in who you are.” He smiled.

“Thanks,” I whispered. His disappointment is probably the worst thing I can imagine.

“Oh, and if you want, you can bring little Maisie Jones home with you any time you like.”

I just hugged him. You know, I think I might just do that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Author's Note: Genie's school is a real place. The Francis Holland School is a secondary/sixth-form girls' school that's literally around the corner from Baker Street. I chose it for its location, but I've had a look at[their website](http://www.fhs-nw1.org.uk/index.php) and it seems like an awesome school, just the sort of place for Genie. I've made my description of the school as accurate as I can (such as the fact that their sixth-formers don't have to wear a uniform anymore) but I've no idea if they have Mean Girls there like Lilly. From the video it seems like a very nurturing-sisterhood sort of place (and I went to a posh women's college, so I know from that sort of atmosphere) but as Genie says, it's hard to imagine a bunch of teenage girls without getting a few Heathers in the mix._


	12. 12 November

**The Blog of Eugenia H. Watson, Live and In Person**

 _12 November_

Stir crazy does not begin to describe what I had become by Sunday afternoon. Being grounded is naff in the extreme. I missed out on a concert on Friday night, had to skip going out with Aunt Adele yesterday, and tonight Mum and Dad went to an art fair that I was dying to go to. Then afterwards they went out for sushi, my absolute favorite thing in the world, while I was stuck here.

Luckily, I have a white knight ready to rescue me from the boredom of being stuck at home.

 _The game is on.  
SH_

I grinned at the text message on my mobile. That meant chess game. I ran downstairs and over into 221. Sherlock had the board set up on the table in the lounge. I always play white with him, although when I’m playing seriously I have to alternate which side of the board I play so I get practice on each.

I don’t play chess with Sherlock to hone my skills. He’s definitely a genius, but he’s never applied his intellect to chess with any sort of dedication. Even he’s able to admit that I could easily beat him in a couple dozen moves without much effort. I need a more skilled opponent when I practice for tournament play. But that’s not why I play chess with him. It’s just something we do. Sit across a board, not have to look each other in the eye, and talk about things. Sometimes difficult things. Sometimes things I can’t talk about with Mum or Dad or anyone else. Sherlock might be my legal father now but he never really tries to _parent_ me, not in a real imparting-of-values sense. His idea of raising me has always been to tell me the unvarnished truth, show me things as they are, and let me twist in the wind when I need to. He’s the one who’ll give me frank answers about things like sex and drugs and weird lifestyles, and it’s rather brilliant because for one, he knows everything and for another, nothing embarrasses him. The downside of this is that he has no real filter for deciding what questions of mine really shouldn’t be answered. I rather regret having asked him what fisting is. Dad would have known not to tell me. Or he would have after he’d recovered from his heart attack.

I sat down and made my first move, and we were off.

“Don’t you get jealous when Dad and Mum go out together?”

“Why would I get jealous?”

“Umm – I’d think that would be obvious.”

“I’m not threatened by John maintaining a friendship with your mother.”

“You sure are secure.”

“He’s never given me reason not to be. It works out well for me. If she accompanies him to the art show, that means that he will not ask _me_ to accompany him to the art show, which I would decline to do, which would lead to an argument, which we would both find unpleasant. This way, everybody wins.”

“So basically my mother is a convenient stand-in for things you can’t be fussed to do.”

“On occasion, yes.”

I took one of his pawns.

“You know I’ve been having all these serious conversations lately, with Mum and Dad.”

“I’ve been advised.”

“Your turn is coming.”

“I rather thought it might be my turn right now.”

“Is that why you asked me over to play chess?”

“I enjoy your company.”

“Thanks.”

He took one of my rooks.

“So Mum and Dad got married and they were both in love with other people.”

“Correct.”

“Did you know?”

“Which part?”

“Any of it.”

“The first time I met Grace, which was well before I met John, I knew she’d had significant heartbreak in her past that was an ongoing concern. I knew she’d had a series of short-lived relationships. I knew that the person she loved was far removed from her geographically and that her feelings for him were returned, but a significant obstacle prevented the pursuit of a relationship by either party.”

“Oh, is that all?”

“No, it isn’t. I also knew that she’d been late for work that morning because she missed the Tube and I knew she was struggling with the politics of her academic department at King’s. And that she’d recently lost six pounds from stress.”

I took another of his pawns.

“What about Dad?”

He took one of my pawns.

I took his bishop with my knight.

“I have always found it difficult, where your father is concerned, to separate what I observed to be true from what I merely wished to be true. It’s an inescapable disadvantage to emotional responses, which is why I try to avoid them.”

“’Try’ being the key word there.”

“Clearly.”

“Was it hard to watch him get married?”

“Hard? Not the word I’d choose.”

“What word would you choose?”

He took another pawn. “My command of English is insufficient to answer that question.”

“Why did you let him get married?”

“Why did I _let_ him? I think you overestimate my control of your father’s life decisions.”

“No, I don’t. If you’d told him how you felt…”

“That was not an option.”

“Why not?”

“Because I believed that he had made his choice. I believed him to be happy. Happier than I was capable of making him.”

“You make him happy now, though.”

“I hope so.”

“I don’t know if I could stand by and watch the person I loved get married, and then hang around and watch them have a child and a life with someone else.”

“Yes, you could. If that person’s happiness was more important to you than your own.” He took another pawn.

“Is that all?”

“It’s possible that the prospect of his absence from my life was sufficiently unpleasant as to outweigh any discomfort I may have felt at being a constant witness to his new life.”

“You know that only talk like that when you’re distancing yourself from your own emotions, right?”

“It’s been brought it to my attention.”

“Why can’t you just say that you couldn’t bear to be apart from him, even if it meant seeing him with Mum?”

“I thought I did.”

I took one of his knights.

“Have you ever slept with a woman?”

“Yes.”

“More than one?”

“Would you like an alphabetized list?”

“There have been enough to necessitate a _list?_ ”

“Four.”

“That’s not enough to require alphabetization.”

“You’re being tiresomely literal about my flippant remarks.”

“Have you ever slept with a man? I mean, besides Dad.”

“Yes. One other.”

“Did you love any of those people?”

“I had positive reactions to most of them.”

“So, no.”

“Your fixation on levels and intensities of romantic attachment is typical of your age group.”

“I’m not sure, but I think I’m insulted.”

“Don’t be. You’re trying to get me to make some sort of grand romantic declaration to satisfy your desire for security.”

“Is it wrong for me to want security?”

“No. I would have thought that you already had it.”

“You and Dad are pretty much my primary model for a healthy relationship, you know.”

“As your father reminds me, incessantly.”

“So it’s natural that I’m curious about how it all happened. You and him, him and Mum.”

“Yes, it’s natural. I’m just not sure what information you still require.”

“How you all came to be – like this! How it all – oh, hang it. How the hell do three people come to this arrangement?”

“Carefully.”

“Check.”

He moved out of the way, taking my bishop. “It was never my intention to come between your parents, Genie.”

“Mum says that when she married Dad, she knew she was only borrowing him.”

“I think if he were here, John might object to being characterized as an object which she and I traded back and forth, like a favorite stuffed toy whose ownership is in dispute.”

Pawn to Queen’s bishop 4.

Knight to King’s rook 3.

Pawn to Queen’s bishop 5.

I swooped in and took his other bishop.

When he spoke again, his voice was low and deliberate. Unadorned, like it wasn’t for show. It didn’t sound like him, not like the usual Sherlock.

“When you were seven years old, you went missing from a park after a school trip.  
I know your memories of this incident aren’t clear. I wish I could say the same, but I remember every minute of it. I remember the exact words on the exact page of the book I was reading when John called me. I remember the tone of his voice when he said he needed me. I remember not being able to get a cab and just starting to run instead, because I had to get there, as fast as I could. He was counting on me to find you. I had never had such personal motivation to solve a mystery. I had to find you, not only because of my own affection for you, but because John was half out of his mind, and I had to fix it.”

Four moves went by in silence. Check.

He took my pawn and moved out of check. “The day before their wedding, your mother and I each made a single promise to one another. She promised me that she would care for him, and give him what I could not. I promised her that if – or, as she insisted, _when_ – things changed, it would not be my doing, but only his. I kept that promise. The closest I came to breaking it was when I was able to place you back in his arms and he looked at me as if I’d given him the world entire. I opened my mouth to speak, as I am told I often do without considering the implications, and I don’t really know what was going to come out. Perhaps a declaration that there is no person who lives, who has ever lived or ever will, who is loved the way that he is by me. But for once, my better angels prevailed.”

Check. He moved out and took my knight.

“It was at the hospital that things changed. Not at my doing.”

I took his rook. Three moves were made in silence.

“I’ve been entirely passive where your father’s concerned, Genie. The hard work was done by him. It’s ironic that people who ought to mind their own business talk as if I stole him from Grace. All I ever did was write him a letter. He made his own choice.”

“Did that choice surprise you?”

“Yes, in as much as I have never in my life anticipated anything turning out as I hoped it would. It’s just simpler to expect the worst.”

I moved my queen. “Checkmate.”

Sherlock shook his head and knocked over his king. “How many times could you have checkmated me in this game? I counted at least four.”

I smirked. “Eleven.”

“You vicious child. Toying with me for your own sport.”

“Distracting you so you’d keep talking.”

The front door to 219 opened and I heard Mum and Dad chatting as they entered. “We’re home!” he called. “Genie? Sherlock?”

“In here, Dad!”

They came through into 221’s lounge. Dad stood by the chessboard, tsk-ing in disapproval. “Another crushing defeat for the House of Holmes, I see.”

“I’m afraid the House of Genie surpassed my abilities at this game when she was still wearing footie pajamas.” Sherlock said, smiling up at Dad.

Dad leaned over and kissed him, soft on the mouth. “Hello,” he murmured, somehow making the simple greeting sound intimate. Sherlock didn’t reply, but his eyes went twinkly in a way that I know is meant to be a bit private between them.

“I see you found a way to occupy yourself while grounded,” Mum said.

“Don’t tell me about the art show.”

“It was horrid. Wasn’t it, John?”

“Absolutely,” Dad said. He’d perched on the arm of Sherlock’s chair, a hand resting on the back of Sherlock’s neck. “Boring, trite, amateurish…”

“Overpriced, homogenous…”

“It was divine, wasn’t it?” I said.

“Heavenly,” Mum said.

“Of course it was.”

“But we brought you some sushi!” Mum said, holding up a takeaway bag. “Inari, your favorite.”

I grinned and grabbed the bag. “Thanks! I’m famished.” I jumped up and went back over to 219 for a plate and some tea. Dad came in a few moments later and put the kettle on. “Tea all around, then?” I said.

“One person gets tea, suddenly everyone wants tea.” He glanced at me. “You have a good talk with Sherlock, then?”

“What makes you think we were having a talk?”

“You’d never have lost that many pieces to him except on purpose.”

“Fair point. We did have a – talk.”

“What about?”

“What do you think, Dad? About the same thing we’ve all been talking about all week.”

Dad nodded. “I suppose it was his turn.”

I faced him, bracing my hands on the edge of the counter behind me. “He said something odd.”

“Why should today be different?”

“Seriously.”

Dad faced me. “What’d he say?”

“He said that you’d done all the hard work when it came to you and him. That he’d been totally passive.” I shrugged. “’Passive’ isn’t a word I normally associate with him.”

“He said he was – passive?” Dad was frowning.

“He said all he’d done was write you a letter.”

Dad got a look on his face then, an untidy mix of nostalgia and comprehension. “Oh. Well, maybe someday I’ll show you that letter, sweetheart. Then you can tell me if I’m the only one who did any hard work.”

He kissed my temple and headed back over to 221, leaving me to stare at my inari. Great. Thanks, Dad. Something _else_ to obsess over.


	13. 17 November

**The Blog of Eugenia H. Watson, Wielder of the Flame of Arnor**

 _17 November_

Ah, there’s nothing like a good rewatch of Lord of the Rings. Sit down with a big bowl of something crunchy and salty, cuddle up with a blanket, and you’re back in Middle-Earth. But don’t you hate it when it gets to that part after the Mines of Moria, when all of a sudden, there’s Luke Skywalker! And he’s swinging that damn lightsaber, and Legolas is all, step off, bitch! and the hobbits are running about, and it’s chaos. Don’t you hate that part?

Oh wait, you don’t. Because it _didn’t happen,_ because _that would be insane._

But that, my dear not-yet-existent memoir readers, is just what happened to me tonight. Worlds collided, we crossed the streams, we fed the gremlins after midnight, and my head is still spinning. It’s after midnight and I’m on my third draft of this blog entry.

But before I can talk about that, I need to talk about The Zack Thing for a minute. The Zack Thing was becoming An Issue.

Ever since Paul Starkey’s party, the night of my Bothnal Green adventure, things had been a bit weird with us. He’s still been showing up at school to walk me home every day. We’re just not talking about the things we used to talk about. We’re talking about stupid stuff, like sports teams and video games and pop stars. We never talked about that rubbish before and yet somehow, now we are.

I can’t get it out of him if he’s still seeing Tramp Stamp Sophia, if he was ever seeing her to begin with. I don’t know if I care or not. If I don’t care, I feel bad about it, but if I do care, I feel bad about it. This is a lose-lose situation. I don’t like those, not even a little bit.

I don’t know if I want Zack to be my boyfriend. I don’t know that I want to be his girlfriend. How am I supposed to know these things? Some magical switch that clicks over in my head and tells me to start feeling all romantic about him? How do I even know what that feels like? I am not exactly Our Lady of the Fluttering Hearts. I’ve never had a serious boyfriend. I’ve had a couple not-so-serious semi-boyfriends, and one torrid affair. That’s Metsy’s term, not mine.

First, there was Jolly, a guy I knew from chess tourneys, when I was still playing in Juniors. His real name was Gerald Something-Hyphenated, but everyone called him Jolly, because he was. I was fifteen, he was seventeen. I outranked him, which provided me with no end of fodder for teasing, which is what passes for romantic repartee when you’re not even old enough to drive. Anyway, we held hands and kissed a couple of times. We only went on two dates that weren’t meetups at tourneys. The first one was rather exciting. He actually came to the house in his car. I felt like a Real Live Girl, getting collected for a date by a Real Boy in his Real Car. Only Mum was home, thank God, so he was spared the Holmes-and-Watson Two-Man Interrogation and Intimidation Revue and Variety Show. He took me to the cinema and then out for ice cream. It was all very Victorian. The second date he took me to a party being given by some bloke at his school. It was a bit mad and chaotic for my taste. I stuck pretty well glued to Jolly, and I think he finally got the idea that night that I might be a tad young for the crowd he ran with. After that we just sort of drifted apart. So strike one, Eugenia.

Strike two was Pasha, a perfectly dreamy Russian chap who’s the brother of one of my school friends. Natalia is a year ahead of me and one time her younger brother came along to watch rugger in Regent’s Park with us, so she introduced him around. They know from chess in Russia, and Pasha was fascinated when Natalia told him that I played competitively. He immediately began babbling about Garry Kasparov and we were off to the races. We went on a few dates. The park, the cinema, the usual. That fizzled out because – well, he wouldn’t. Anything. He wouldn’t even hold my hand! What sort of past-life trauma does a bloke have to have to make him cringe at the idea of even casual contact? Let alone any snogging, which I would have been wildly in favor of. I’d have been happy with a bloody hug. But that was a non-starter. So was Pasha, in the end.

Which brings me to my torrid affair, and also a pretty big secret that I’ve not shared with any of the parentals.

Eugenia Holmes Watson, Our Heroine, is not a virgin.

I know. Shock and dismay. No unicorns for this girl. I know that I told my mother I wasn’t having sex. It’s true. I’m not having sex. I _had_ sex, one time. It happened – and feel free to mock me for this – at science camp. This past June, I went to a science camp for Up-And-Coming Nerdy Teenagers up at Cambridge. I had an invitation to the chemistry courses and I was pretty chuffed about it. I hate maths but I love chemistry. Sadly, the former pretty much precludes me from reading the latter at Uni or I might consider it, but I can still be a hobbyist, like Sherlock, who never lets a silly little thing like proper qualifications stop him from studying – well, whatever takes his fancy.

Anyway. Torrid affair. Right you are.

Jason McKenzie was his name. He was American. Well, I’d venture a guess that he still is. He’d won some sort of scholarship to come to this camp in merry old England. He was from – oh, bugger. Nebraska? Iowa? Kansas? One of the ones in the middle that has a lot of cornfields. Anyhow he was tall and blond and blue-eyed and – well, you could go blind looking at this chap, I swear. Every girl at the camp was on the pull for him. I have no earthly idea why he went for me. I think I’m rather adorable, but I had been led to believe that American boys are all fixated on blondes with big knockers whereas I’m more the pixie-bookworm type. But within a few days after camp started, it was clear he’d set his sights on me. I was helpless. It didn’t hurt that he wasn’t just dishy, he was smart and funny and really quite sweet. He was at the camp doing courses in particle physics, and our very first conversation was about the Higgs boson. Ah, nerd romance. They’ll never write songs about it. By the third day we were holding hands around campus. By the fourth there was clandestine snogging round every corner. And our last weekend there, well – it was a whirlwind romance, what can I say? I don’t think it was his first time, but he knew it was mine. And he didn’t push me into it, in fact it was my idea. I know it’s typical for the first time to be crap, but either he was super skilled or I’m a natural because honestly, it was fantastic. Bit pinchy at first but then, divine. And we all went home the next day. We promised to write, stay in touch, email each other, but I wasn’t holding my breath. There were a few emails, but I haven’t heard from him since July.

Which brings me to Zack again. Zack and I have grown up together. Being an only child is a bit pants at times, and he’s been my best friend and substitute brother. We used to more or less live at each other’s houses, although that’s eased up a bit as we’ve gotten older and branched out, and since we don’t go to the same school anymore. We’ve never been romantic. But maybe I ought to reconsider what it means to be romantic in the first place. I’ve never looked at Zack and felt that fluttery stomach feeling. It isn’t like that head-spinny thing I always got around Jason. How does one know?

So I did what I always do. I asked my mother.

It was just her and me at dinner tonight. No idea where the menfolk were, and for once I didn’t care because I was glad to have this conversation with her in private. “Soooooooo Mum,” I began, going for casual, which of course clued her in immediately.

“Yes?” she said, eyeing me over the takeaway curry.

“I need to ask you a question.”

“All right.”

“How do you know if you’re – I mean, when you’ve – oh, hang it.” She just waited, calmly eating her naan. Fat lot of good that does me, Mother. You’re supposed to magically intuit what I want to ask and just give me the information I need, unprompted. Didn’t they teach you these things at Mummy School? I sighed. “How do you know if you love someone?”

“Hmm. That’s a tough one. I think it must be different for everyone. And each time you feel love, it’s different.”

“Depending on who the other person is.”

“Exactly. I’m not much of an expert, Genie. I’ve only loved two men in my life, and it was vastly different both times.”

“Just checking – one of them is Dad, right?”

She smiled. “Yes, luv. One of them’s Dad.”

“But how did you _know?_ Did you know right away? Love at first sight?”

“Goodness, no. I was surprised, though. I didn’t know what to expect of your father. For Sherlock to have a colleague, I was expecting someone who was – well, like Sherlock. But then I met John and he was so -- grounded. I could tell that he was patient and kind, and strong. I thought he was very attractive. He’s quite my type.”

“You have a type?”

“Oh, yes. I’ve always been drawn to the upstanding Queen-and-country sort. Blue eyes are a plus. The military background was just the icing on the cake. And I’ve always been attracted to men who are shorter than me.”

“Really?”

She shrugged. “Chacun a son gout. I’m pretty tall so that’s never been too difficult to find. Our first date just confirmed my initial impressions, and more. So we kept dating, and then one day a few months later I looked at him and – there it was. I loved him.”

“Just like that?”

She smiled. “You were expecting fireworks or bolts from the blue?”

“Well, that would make it easier to tell.”

“Sorry.”

“What about – the other time?” I had to tread carefully here. This had to be about He Who Shall Not Be Named. “Was that with – him? That man?”

She went quiet. “Yes. With him it was quite different. That _was_ a first-sight thing. Bolts from the blue and arrows through the heart and all that.” She sighed. “Unfortunately, that sort of immediate effect doesn’t always mean that something’s meant to be, or that it’ll work at all. I hate to contradict John Lennon, but love isn’t all you need.”

“What else?”

She thought for a moment. “Compatible character, and stability, and common goals, and just the ability to co-exist and cooperate. Boring things.”

“Is that what love is?”

“No. Those things don’t create love. What they do is allow love to survive. Because it isn’t easy, it’s never easy. But I doubt your question is about building a life with somebody. You just want to figure out how you feel about Zack.”

I blushed. “Is it that obvious?”

“Sweetheart, that boy has been mad for you since he was twelve years old. And I think he’s getting tired of waiting to find out if you feel the same.”

“He could just ask me! I don’t understand why people can’t just _say_ things. Why can’t Zack just say ‘Genie, I fancy you, let’s try a snog if you’re willing?’”

“Saying things is hard. It isn’t always possible. Sometimes we don’t do it to spare ourselves and other people any hurt.”

Oh. Like when Sherlock never said ‘John, I’m crazygonuts in love with you, please don’t marry Grace.’ Like that.

My pontifications were interrupted at that point by the bell. I jumped up. “I’ll get it.”

“It might be Randall, he said he might drop by with some reports.”

I trotted down the stairs to the front door and opened it. I ended up being glad that I was hanging onto the doorknob because otherwise I might have fallen right down on the ground.

Standing on the front step was none other than Jason McKenzie. Like he’d just popped by after school, as opposed to taking several planes to get here from Unidentified Cornfield State. He grinned at me. “Hi, Genie,” he said. He looked super proud of himself.

I just stood there with my mouth hanging open. “Jason!” I finally managed to say. “Wha – what are you doing here?”

“My dad’s in town for a conference. I asked if I could come with him. I never got to see London when I was here last summer.” He fidgeted a bit. “And I, uh – I was hoping I might get to see you.”

“So you, what? Just show up?”

“I wanted to surprise you,” he said. “And I didn’t know until a few days ago if I’d be able to come.” He was looking a little uncertain now. I realized that in my shock, I wasn’t being terribly hospitable.

“I’m sorry, of course,” I spluttered. “It’s fantastic! I’m well chuffed to see you, I’m just really surprised!” It was quite amazing to see him, now that the brain-lock was letting up. He was just as gorgeous as he’d ever been. “Oh my gosh, where are my manners? Come in,” I said, standing aside. He stepped into the hall. I shut the door and faced him. He smiled down at me and I could tell that he wanted to kiss me or something, but I felt a bit odd about it so I just sort of smiled back and headed up the stairs. “Um – Mum? Got a bit of a surprise visitor.”

We came out into the lounge as Mum emerged from the dining room. She had her polite-company hi-I’m-Genie’s-Mum smile on. “Oh, hello,” she said.

“Mum, this is Jason McKenzie. I met him at science camp last summer. He’s in town unexpectedly and popped in for a visit.”

“Oh, how nice,” she said, her eyes flicking back and forth between us. I inched away from him. Probably too late. For figuring things out, Mum can give Sherlock a run for his money.

“It’s nice to meet you, Dr. Pepperidge,” Jason said, sticking out his hand, impeccably mannered as ever. I was impressed that he remembered my mother’s name, especially given that it’s different than mine. “Genie told me all about you.”

Mum smiled and seemed a bit charmed. She shook his hand. “Nice to meet you too – Jason, was it? Come in, sit down. Have you had dinner? Genie and I are having curry takeaway, you’re welcome to join us. There’s plenty.”

“Oh no, thank you. I’ve eaten.”

We all moved into the lounge and sat down. I don’t think I’ve ever been quite so uncomfortable in my life. I sat there on the edge of the couch cushion with my hands primly folded like some sort of Henry James character. “So, you’re visiting from America?” Mum said.

“Yes. My father’s a cardiac surgeon, he’s here at a conference. I came along to see more of London. And I hoped to see Genie again.”

“You say you met at the science camp? Hmm. I don’t think she mentioned you.”

“Mother,” I said, through gritted teeth. “Of course I did. I told you _all about him._ ”

“Oh – of course. Pardon me, my memory isn’t what I used to be,” she said, throwing me a glance. Which is nonsense. Mum can remember what I’ve had for lunch for the past five years, probably. I hadn’t told her a thing about Jason, which of course I didn’t want him to know because it might hurt his feelings, and the fact that I hadn’t said anything _and_ that I didn’t want him to know that I hadn’t was probably giving her all the information she needed to figure things out.

“I know Genie travels a lot, with her chess playing,” Jason said, smiling broadly.

“I’m going to New York next month,” I said, grateful to have a relatively safe topic. “I’ve been invited to a tournament for the top ranked players under 21. Maybe we could meet up while I’m there!” I said.

Jason looked a little bemused at this. “Well, I’d love that, but – I live in Nebraska. That’s either a plane trip or about two days’ drive.”

“Oh,” I said, deflating. “Of course. America is rather large, isn’t it? Easy for us to forget that, here on our little island.” Mum was watching us. With every second that went by, the odds of the Gruesome Twosome returning increased. I had to get Jason out of here. There was no way on earth I was letting him in the same room as Sherlock. “Say, Jason, why don’t we pop round the corner for an ice cream? Catch up?”

“That’d be great. I would love to meet your dads, though.”

“Oh, they’re not in right now. Probably out chasing a serial killer. Likely not be in at all tonight.” I got up. “So let’s just…”

At which moment, of _course,_ we all heard the door to 221 open below and footsteps coming up their stairs. I heard Dad laughing and Sherlock’s deep voice, murmuring something to him. They sounded like they were in high spirits, energetic. They’d probably just done something insane, like hijack a Maserati and engage in a high-speed chase through Whitechapel.

 _Please, let them stay over there, please please please…_ Post-adventure adrenaline sometimes sent them to their bedroom, and for once I found myself praying for my dads to feel the desperate need to have sex, like this very instant, if it would keep them out of 219.

No such luck. The voices got louder, then the door into 221 opened and they both tumbled in, their faces flushed, coats still on. They had obviously just come from some form of derring-do and they looked very pleased with each other. Sherlock had a hold of Dad’s elbow and I could tell by the look of their lips (and the stubble-burn) that they’d been recently been kissing. They were probably coming over in search of something to eat.

At the sight of Mum, me and Jason sitting in the lounge staring at them, they both drew up short and composed themselves. “Oh. Hello,” Dad said, a slightly confuzzled look on his face. “Uh…”

I jumped to my feet. Maybe I could head this off at the pass. “Dad! Um – this is Jason McKenzie, an old – friend. He just dropped in to see me, and we were just leaving. Ice cream!” I was babbling.

Jason stood up and drew his shoulders back. Oh god, he was putting on a Meeting the Father(s) posture. Maybe he had – Intentions. How can it be that a guy who I hadn’t heard from in three months was suddenly in my house acting like he was about to ask for my hand in marriage? This was not my life. This was bloody Luke Skywalker in the Mines of Moria.

I couldn’t very well just leave them all hanging, though. Etiquette, you know. I was brought up right. “Jason, this is my dad, Dr. John Watson.”

Jason extended his hand and Dad shook it, still wearing a sort of “what the hell is going on” expression. “It’s nice to meet you, Dr. Watson.”

“Likewise,” Dad said.

“And this is my other dad, Sherlock Holmes.”

Jason shook Sherlock’s hand as well. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes.”

“Charmed,” Sherlock said, all smooth gentility, one eyebrow arched.

“Genie’s told me so much about both of you,” Jason gushed.

“Has she?” Sherlock purred. “That’s fascinating, considering she’s told us absolutely nothing about you.”

“Oh, well…” Jason spluttered, while I shot Sherlock a death glare, which he ignored. “I know she meets a lot of people.”

“Indeed. I’m sure I’d remember if she’d mentioned you, though. You’re obviously American, from – hmm. One of the Plains states. Possibly Kansas.”

“Nebraska.”

“Close enough. Your father is a doctor, a surgeon. You’ve just arrived in London two days ago and you decided to surprise Genie with a visit, since you haven’t seen her since the science camp at Cambridge where you obviously met her and became enamored with her, for which one could hardly blame any young man with eyes and a brain.”

“Sherlock!” I hissed. Dad had one hand over his mouth and was trying not to laugh.

“What? It’s true.”

“You’re embarrassing me!”

“Is that not part of my job description? Grace, back me up, here.”

“Oh, you’re doing just fine on your own,” Mum said.

“But if that’s the case, Mr. McKenzie, one wonders why you haven’t stayed in touch with her since your sad parting.”

“Well, I…” Jason looked at me, wide-eyed and flummoxed. I shrugged. He was on his own. “I wanted to. Really, I did.” He shook his head. “How do you know all that about me?”

“The American part is self-evident. Your father’s occupation is evident in the habits you’ve acquired from him, namely the care you take of your hands and the style of shoes you’re wearing, as well as the way you’ve rolled up your shirtsleeves. There is a medical conference in town this weekend which your father is obviously attending; most of the doctors from overseas arrived two days ago. You clearly know Genie rather well given your flush and the agitation in your fingers at being in her presence, and the only place that she could have met an American student without one of us also meeting him was at the science camp she attended last summer in Cambridge. The fact that she told none of us anything about her acquaintance with you tells me that it was a romantic liaison which she wished to remain private.”

If a Morlock hole had opened up at my feet that instant, I would have gladly dropped inside and descended to the center of the earth, never to be seen again. Jason looked wildly impressed. “Wow. Genie wasn’t kidding when she said that you could tell anything about a person!”

Sherlock shrugged. “Simple deduction.”

I grabbed at Jason’s sleeve. “What say we go out for that ice cream now?”

“Um, sure,” he said, smiling at me.

“I’ll just be a minute. Why don’t you go downstairs and wait outside for me?” I hoped that didn’t sound too horribly rude.

“All right.” He didn’t seem bothered. “It was nice to meet you all,” he said, beaming that big toothpaste-commercial smile all around.

“Nice to meet you too, Jason,” Mum said. Dad still looked confused. Sherlock was rather ostentatiously looking anywhere in the room but at us.

He went down the stairs and I waited until I heard the front door open and close. I whirled on Sherlock. “You _had_ to, didn’t you? You couldn’t have just pretended to be normal, just for once?”

“Genie, he seemed like a perfectly nice boy,” Mum said.

“God, Mum, you sound like a telly grandmother. A perfectly nice boy, sure. Who doesn’t write me for three sodding months and then shows up at the door like the Boyfriend Fairy!”

“Did you see his teeth?” Dad said. “Those can’t be real.”

“He didn’t write you because he already had a girlfriend back in America when you met him,” Sherlock said. “He went back to her after the science camp. He’s just broken up with her and now he’s wondering how much street cred it would get him to have an English girlfriend.”

My jaw dropped. “He had a _girlfriend?_ ”

“Obviously. Not that he doesn’t fancy you. He does, rather a lot. In fact, I might venture a guess that…”

“No!” I shrieked. They all stared at me like I’d grown a second head. “No guesses! No deductions! Christ, Sherlock, are you physically incapable of keeping your gob shut for two minutes?”

Sherlock recoiled just a bit, his face closing down. Dad took a step forward, his face going severe. “Hey,” he said, sternly. “You mind your tone, Eugenia. You’re not to talk to Sherlock like that.”

“Oh, while you’re laying down the law, Dad, can we have some bylaws about everyone keeping their noses out of my love life?”

“We can’t, we’re your parents,” Mum said, going to stand on Dad’s other side. “That’s where our noses belong.”

“Can’t a body have the slightest lick of privacy around here?” I yelled.

“You only worry about privacy when you’re keeping something from us that you know you shouldn’t,” Dad said. “So let’s have it, Eugenia.”

I just stood there for a moment, speechless. The worst part was that I knew perfectly well that Sherlock could tell that I’d slept with Jason, and he hadn’t said anything. And yet I’d gone off on him anyway.

What can I say? Teenager, remember?

I turned around and stomped off down the stairs. “Genie, we are not finished here!” Dad shouted.

“We’ll finish later,” I yelled back. I opened the door and allowed myself a good slam.

Jason was on the pavement, acting like he hadn’t heard a word of that. I put on my best smile. “Everything okay?” he said.

“Oh, sure. You know. Parents.”

He grinned. “I’ve got some, too. Yours seem pretty cool, though.”

I sagged, the guilt coming in now. “Yeah. They are.” I wanted to ask him about the girlfriend Sherlock said he had, but I was having a hard time caring that much.

Jason walked up to me and took my hands in his. “Look, Genie, maybe I went about this all wrong. I’m sorry I didn’t keep in touch as well as I wanted, I just had the most insane summer and then it’s all college applications this fall and I’m pulled in eight directions at once. That’s why I was so eager to come with my dad over here. Just to get away from everything. And to see you.” He smiled at me, that slantwise smile that had been so charming back in Cambridge.

He leaned in and I didn’t stop him. He kissed me, and it was just like before. Soft and sweet.

I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye and I turned my head, breaking the kiss.

Across the street was Zack, standing on the pavement and watching us. My stomach dropped down to my shoes.

“Genie?” Jason said.

I didn’t answer. Zack watched us for another moment, then he turned and went into his flat. He didn’t look back.

So Jason and I went and had the blasted ice cream, and I came back and there were Parental Encounters, but I’ve not the energy to write about that now. Tomorrow, perhaps.

Right now, all I can think about is Zack. Remember when I wished for a magical switch that would tell me how I felt about him? Well, I think I found it tonight, in the heartbroken look on my friend’s face when he saw me with another boy.

Bugger.


	14. 18 November

**The Blot of Eugenia H. Watson, The Dread Pirate Roberts**

 _18 November_

Picking up where I left off last night, then.

I’ll not bore you with the details of Ice Cream with Nebraskans. If what Sherlock said was true, then Jason had been less than honest with me. He was still good company, though. I told him about slapping Lilly, which he found quite delightful. We parted on friendly enough terms. I’m sure I wasn’t quite the enthralling conversationalist he’d been hoping for and probably expecting, because I couldn’t stop thinking about Zack.

I put Jason in a cab back to his hotel and walked home. I stood outside 219 and stared across at Zack’s house for awhile, debating whether or not to go knock on the door. It was only eight o’clock at night, but it just didn’t feel like the right time.

I went inside, my footsteps heavy. I knew I was walking into some parental retribution. I just didn’t know what form it would take. Theoretically I was supposed to still be grounded from having slapped Lilly Bathgate, but after the weekend Dad sort of shrugged and said he’d knock it down to time served.

The house was quiet. Too quiet.

When I got up to the lounge, Dad was there, sitting in the Eames chair with a book. He was quite obviously waiting for me. Neither Mum nor Sherlock were anywhere in sight. I stood there by the doorway, shifting from foot to foot. He put down his book with a sigh. “Genie, come sit down,” he said.

I sat. I couldn’t really look at him.

Dad leaned his elbows on his knees, thinking. “I know he’s difficult,” he said. “God, do I ever know it. It’s near twenty years I’ve known him now. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve wanted to strangle him?”

I smiled a little. “I’m sorry, Dad. I sort of lost it.”

“I can’t exactly blame you. I’ve lost it with him myself when he just spouts off all sorts of details that I’d rather not be made public knowledge. Remember the time he announced to the entire hospital Christmas party that my boss wore a girdle and a hairpiece? Good Lord, it’s a wonder I’ve been able to maintain any kind of a career. I’ve spent what feels like most of my life being a human buffer between Sherlock Holmes and the rest of the world. It gets damn bloody tiring.” He sighed. “He doesn’t ask for much from anyone. He doesn’t want money, he doesn’t want fame or recognition or praise. He doesn’t care for awards or publicity or notoriety. He does what he does because he wants to do it, and not because he expects anything in return. You do know that he pays for Leonid, and for most of your school, don’t you?”

I nodded, feeling more miserable than ever.

“He only wants two things. One, to be challenged, and two, for the people he cares about to accept him as he is. And he cares about you.”

“I know,” I said.

“Genie, I won’t have you shouting at him like some idiot Yarder who doesn’t know who he’s talking to. I know he acts like he has no feelings, and cannot be hurt, but you and I know better. He does have feelings and he can be hurt. You hurt him tonight. And when you hurt him, you hurt me.”

“I didn’t mean it,” I said.

“I know. But Genie, you know how a lot of the world treats him. With contempt, with impatience, with outright hostility.”

“That’s how he treats a lot of the world, Dad.”

He sighed. “I know that. But my point is that he pretends not to care but he does. Most people don’t have much power to hurt him, but you do.” Dad smiled. “You know he was the first person to hold you besides me and your mother? You were so fussy and wiggly, but the second I put you in his arms, you went so still and quiet, and stared up at him like he was the most fascinating thing you’d ever seen. You used to follow him around the flat, toddling about and falling down. He’d yell at me to come get you out from underfoot, but he secretly liked it. I used to catch him at the kitchen table with you on his lap while he did experiments, very seriously explaining step by step just what he was doing, and you’d be staring up at him like you were enthralled. And when you got old enough to understand deduction, you were his most enthusiastic protégé. Here, at last, was somebody who’d never mock his abilities, who’d never scoff at his conclusions, who’d never brush him aside with a mean-spirited nickname. Not you, no, you wanted to _be_ him. It was the ultimate sop to his ego, sure, but it was also unconditional acceptance. He’d never had that until he found it in a child’s love. Someone who’d never make him feel like a freak. And you never did.”

Tears were by this time running down my face. “Until tonight.” I sniffed and wiped at my eyes. “You are really good at this, you know.”

“Good at what?”

“The extreme-guilt strategy of punishment.”

He chuckled. “You should have seen my mother at it. She could have convinced me that by not eating my peas some small child would actually die in India.”

“Is – is Sherlock upset?”

Dad sighed. “Well, he went over to 221, shut the door and hasn’t come out.”

I nodded. “I’ll go apologize.”

“Yes, you will. But Genie, there’s something else.”

“What?”

He hesitated. “You were awfully touchy about this boy Jason. Sherlock must have been edging up to something significant for you to go off like that.”

I sat there like a stone.

“Well, either you’ll tell me what it is, or we’ll sit here all night.”

I dropped my head into my hands. “Oh, Dad. Don’t make me say it.”

His jaw was clenching in that way he has that makes him look like nobody you’d ever want to mess with. “Did he – did he do something to you?” he said, the words hard and threatening.

“No.” I took a deep breath. “Nothing I didn’t want done.”

“Oh.” He slumped over a bit. “So you and he…”

“Yeah. It was just the one time, Dad, I swear. We were careful and I’m not stupid.”

He reached out and took my hand. “I know you’re not. This just isn’t the easiest thing for me to hear.”

“I’m not a little girl anymore.”

“No. But you’re _my_ little girl, and you always will be.”

That about did it for me. I got up and climbed into the Eames chair with him, curling into his lap as I haven’t done for years. I’m not very big. I can still fit. “Are you – mad?”

“That you had sex? No. I knew it would happen someday. Preferably long after I’m dead, but I suppose that wasn’t a realistic hope.” I giggled a little. “Sex isn’t a bad thing or an evil thing, Genie. It doesn’t mean you’re damaged or dirty or less of a good person because you’ve had it. And if you did it with real feeling for the other person, with the appropriate precautions, then that’s your decision and I trust you to make it. You’re of legal age. I’ve nothing to say about it, really.”

“But you wish I hadn’t.”

He sighed. “It isn’t that simple. I know we don’t treat you like it sometimes, and maybe that’s our mistake, but you’re so young, sweetheart. It isn’t just about the risk of physical consequences. You can be hurt, and you can be taken advantage of, and you can be made to feel like less than you are, and I don’t want that for you.” He squeezed me a little tighter. “We want you to be happy. And if that includes finding someone special to love who loves you back, of course I want you to have a satisfying physical relationship with them. Just don’t rush it, okay? It’s so much more complicated than you think it is.”

“Yeah. I’m getting that, a bit.” I craned my neck and kissed his cheek. “I won’t rush. I promise.” We just sat there for a few moments, enjoying the cuddle. “Am I grounded again?” I asked.

“Oh, hang it,” Dad sighed. “I’ll let it go this time. But you have to apologize to Sherlock.”

“I will.” I climbed out of his lap. “I’ll go right now.”

“Don’t wake him if he’s gone to sleep,” Dad said, quickly. He needn’t have bothered. It’s such an ordeal to get Sherlock to sleep at all that if he’s done so of his own free will, I think we’d all jump off a cliff before waking him.

I eased open the door to 221. Sherlock was sitting on the couch, reading a book. He didn’t look up as I entered. I sat cross-legged on the couch, facing him. I waited to be acknowledged. He’d make me sit there and wait a bit just to get a little of his own back.

Finally he marked his place and set his book aside, then turned to look at me. He didn’t say anything.

I stared at my hands for awhile. I knew he’d wait as long as it took me to talk.

I know a lot about this man, who I call Sherlock but who is, in my heart, my father, just as much as Dad is. I know more than he probably realizes. I know what his real smile looks like, and how to make it appear. I know why he’s so careful about his clothes but so sloppy about his flat. I know what moves him and what he fears and what he hopes for. I know why he hates and I know who he respects. It’s a short list.

But there’s a lot that I don’t know, too. I know that he loves my father so much that he’s a little afraid of it, but I don’t know why or how. I know that he doesn’t think of himself as a hero, but I don’t know how he does view himself. I know that he would never have had a family if left to his own devices, but I don’t know if he has any regrets that he’s ended up with one anyway.

I know how I feel about him, but deep down, I’m not sure I yet know who he really is.

“When I was a little girl I used to think I’d grow up and marry you,” I finally said.

Sherlock held up his left hand and wiggled his wedding band. “I’m taken,” he said.

“You weren’t then.”

He sighed. “Yes, I was.” He was looking at me with that expression that goes right through me, like he can read my thoughts off the inside of my skull. “You told your father, then?”

I nodded. “Yes. Thanks for not saying it before I had the chance.”

“Seems I’d said quite enough,” he said, his tone a little frosty.

“Oh, Sherlock, I’m sorry,” I said, finally looking up at him. “I was freaking out a little bit, and there you were about to spill everything…I didn’t mean to get after you.”

“I’ve had far worse from other people.”

“But not from me. I never wanted to be like those other people.”

“You couldn’t, not if you tried. You’re incapable of the level of stupidity I’ve come to expect from the world at large.”

“So – we’re okay, then?”

He smiled at me, the little half-smile that means ‘Emotions are icky but I have them anyway.’ “Indeed we are.”

I grinned and hugged him round the neck, slotting my head down onto his shoulder. He patted my arm where it circled his chest. “What if I wanted to start calling you ‘Dad?’” I said, teasingly.

“Absolutely not.”

“Maybe a different term? Papa?”

“I’ll disown you.”

“How about just Father? Very Victorian.”

He fetched a long-suffering sigh. “How you delight in tormenting me.”

“Oh, all right, _Sherlock._ ”

“That’s more like it.”

“Why are you so dead set against it? I’m fine either way, but why such a strong position?”

“I do not wish to take any distinction away from John. He’s your Dad, not I. If I were capable of being even half the father that he is, maybe I’d consider it.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

We went quiet. I stayed where I was, head tucked down on his shoulder and my arms looped around his neck. At long last, he spoke. “Did that boy – hurt you?” he asked, low and quiet.

“What, just now?”

“No. Before.”

“Oh. No, he didn’t.”

“Hmm. Good.”

“What if he had?” I was a bit curious.

Sherlock cleared his throat, shifting his hands in his lap. “I know people.”

I chuckled. “What, you’d sic Angelo on him?”

He sniffed and went quiet again. “Nobody is allowed to hurt you,” he finally said.

I lifted my head and peered at him. “Did you just whip a Dad-ism on me?” I asked, putting on an air of disbelief, even while the sentiment itself settled like a warm little coal in my belly.

“I suppose I did. How did I do? I’ve been practicing.”

“Have you, now?”

“Yes. I could demonstrate a few more. Last night I think I perfected ‘You’re not wearing _that,_ are you?’ Later I intend to tackle ‘While you live under my roof, you’ll follow my rules.’”

I laughed out loud. Sherlock chuckled along with me. “Don’t ever stop being you, Sherlock.”

“Hmph. I don’t think that’s really an option at this point.”

After awhile he picked up his book again. I curled up on the couch with my head on a pillow in his lap and tucked a blanket around myself. I dozed off a bit, but not before I felt his hand on my hair.

When Dad shook me awake a bit later, the hand was still there, but Sherlock was asleep.


	15. 19 November

**The Blog of Eugenia H. Watson, Lady Marmalade**

_19 November_

Sunday. Easy like Sunday morning. Or, you know, not.

Last night’s entry was all about what happened Friday night, with my Nebraskan visitor. I didn’t say a thing about what actually happened yesterday, which was very little. Mostly I hung around the house waiting for Zack to be home. Which he was not, at all. If I didn’t know better I’d think he was avoiding me. Maybe he is. Either way, he was out all day.

I got up early this morning. I was restless. I’ve always been a naturally early riser. Both Mum and Dad are, too, so sometimes on the weekends we’d end up sitting around the breakfast table when it was barely light outside, then four hours later Sherlock would shuffle in, rubbing his eyes, and wonder why there wasn’t any breakfast left.

So it wasn’t too surprising when Mum wandered into the kitchen as soon as the smell of toast started to float through the flat. She put the kettle on, eyeing the toast. “I wish there could be pancakes,” she said.

I looked at her, seeing my own thought mirrored on her face. “Get Dad up?”

She nodded. “He’s slept enough, don’t you think?”

“Certainly enough that he ought to cook us pancakes.” I went over into 221. The lounge was empty, as was the kitchen. I went down the hall to Dad and Sherlock’s bedroom. I listened for a moment, just to make sure they weren’t getting up to anything I definitely would not want to see, but all I heard was breathing.

I pushed the door open. Dad was asleep on his stomach, his head turned toward the door. I snickered to myself, because Sherlock was untidily sprawled over most of the rest of the bed, half over Dad, still fully clothed. He’d clearly pulled one of his marionette acts, wherein he bounced about in full Sherlockitude, then exhaustion had overtaken him and he’d collapsed like his strings had been cut. It was something of a miracle that he’d actually made it to the bed before losing consciousness.

I bent near Dad’s face and shook his shoulder a bit. “Dad. Psst, hey, Dad.”

He made a gruffly noise. “Mmmph. Go ‘way.”

“Mum and I have decided that there need to be pancakes.”

He sighed. “Sleep.”

“But – pancakes?”

He snuffled into his pillow. “Mum c’n make ‘em.”

“God, Dad. I’d like to survive the morning.”

Another deep sigh, buried in the pillows, and Dad turned his face toward me, his eyes definitely awake now. “Genie, for God’s sake. It’s not even seven in the morning.”

“You’re usually up by now.”

“Yes, but…” His ears turned red, and Genie knew that he’d just stopped himself from saying something about whatever activities had kept him up late the night before. “Oh, all right, then.” He started to roll out of bed, gently, so as not to disturb Sherlock.

No such luck. Sherlock made a grumbly, distressed noise in his sleep and pulled him back, wrapping himself closer, pressing his face into the back of Dad’s neck. Dad shimmied about a bit, to no avail. He cast a wry glance up at me. “I seem to have acquired some sort of parasitic being in my sleep, luv. Give me a moment to extricate myself.”

“Okay.” I leaned over him and planted a kiss in Sherlock’s unruly curls. He was already soundly back asleep.

I went back over to 219. “He’ll be along in a second.” Mum handed me some tea and we stood there in silence for a moment.

“You leave for New York in two weeks, yes?” she asked.

“Yep.”

“Which day?”

“Umm…well, the tournament starts on Monday. I think Sherlock bought the tickets for Friday so we’d have the weekend first before I have to start playing.”

“Pity Leonid can’t go along.”

“I’ll stream my matches to him in the evening and we can go over them and plan. It’ll be just like he’s there.”

“Next weekend we’re off to Nana and Grandpa’s, remember. That American thing Estelle likes to do.”

“Thanksgiving. Brilliant! I can taste her mashed potatoes already.” My mouth was watering at the mere thought of that delicious, creamy and garlicky goodness.

Mum shook her head, a little bemused. Estelle is my cousin Geej’s wife. She’s possibly the most fantastic person I’ve ever met. She’s American, but not just American – she’s a _New Yorker._ She’s a mathematician and a pretty famous hacker. She’s worked for the FBI and everything. Geej is twenty-six and a hippieish Peace Corps sort of guy. He’s the son of Mum’s older brother Geoffrey and his wife Leona. They think Estelle is a bit odd, and they’re not the only ones. Not the least because she’s ten years older than Geej but also because she plays the accordion and wears the same clothes every day. I mean, not the same items. She has about twenty copies of the same exact outfit. She says she dislikes irrelevant decisions, and wearing the same thing every day means one less irrelevant decision. I guess she is a bit of a nutter. She has issues with personal space and is aggressively nerdy (we’re talking about a woman who can name every single Doctor Who story title, in order, starting from 1963). But this is why she is so fantastic. She and Geej, despite being as different as two people can be, are mad crazy about each other, in a way that makes you think that fate has a sense of humor. Dad likes her. Sherlock usually looks at her as if he’d like nothing better than to get her on a slide beneath his microscope.

Whatever else her flaws, Estelle is also the best cook in the world. She could have been a chef if she’d been at all interested. Instead she just creates these jaw-droppingly delicious family dinners for everybody. She loves Thanksgiving and it’s a good excuse to get the whole clan together, so we’ve been having a big Thanksgiving dinner every year since she married Geej.

When I talk about my extended family, 95% of the time I mean Mum’s family. They’re the bulk of my relations, they’re the ones we share holidays with most of the time. Mum has three siblings: her older brother Geoffrey (Geej’s dad – oh, and Geej’s name isn’t weird, he’s actually Geoffrey Junior, as in GJ, which gets pronounced Geej), her younger brother Lionel (who has a wife, Jillian, and two kids, my cousins Lily and Roger), and her identical twin sister Adele (who is single and the most glamorous person I know). Then there’s Nana’s much-younger sister Ruby and her husband Frank, who come around when they’re in town. They’re travel writers and it is impossible to name a place, no matter how remote, where they have not been. Dad just has one sister, my aunt Harry, which is fine, except she’s been more or less assimilated into the Pepperidge Collective at this point, along with her wife, my aunt Clara and their two little kids. So it’s not like we have to choose who to see. When we go to Nana and Grandpa’s, Harry and Clara are invited, too. Dad doesn’t have any other family he’s in touch with.

Sherlock, I am told, does have a mother. I have never met her, and neither has Dad. I don’t know why. I asked Dad once, and he said he didn’t really know why, either. I got the feeling that this was a bit of a sore spot between him and Sherlock so I didn’t press it. I don’t know where she is or what she does or even what her name is. And as for Mycroft, well -- the idea of him at a family gathering gives me neural vapor-lock.

It’s a bit of a miracle that Sherlock comes along, frankly. You wouldn’t think family gatherings would be his cup of tea, and he does make a show of being put out by the whole experience and a bunch of pronouncements about tolerating it only for Dad’s sake and mine, but once we’re there he enjoys it. He finds the dynamics fascinating, and there’s always something going on for him to deduct and then blurt out at the most awkward moment possible, which is just his absolute favorite thing ever.

You may be wondering how it is that Sherlock is even welcome at these gatherings. I mean, this is Mum’s family. The usual narrative would involve Sherlock as The Other Man, Dad as The Bastard Who Left, and Mum as the Wronged Woman with me stuck somewhere in Innocent Victimized Child mode. As you have probably figured out, very little of my life follows the usual narrative.

When Dad and Mum got married, Nana and Grandpa were very distressed that Dad and Harry don’t have other family, so they immediately set about adopting them. This didn’t take long at all. Then Nana set her sights on Sherlock. Dad says that despite Sherlock’s very concerted effort to be as rude and off-putting as possible, they were unfazed – if anything, they were even more determined to add his name to their roster of unofficial children. My birth provided a point of commonality for everyone, and before too long Sherlock had been shanghaied into Clan Pepperidge as well, much to his (possibly fake) dismay.

It must have been a shock for the family when Mum and Dad divorced, since they’d never given any sign of having marital troubles. Mum’s told me that yes, there was some tension at first, especially with her brothers. But Dad and Sherlock’s rather heroic measures to keep us all together impressed the family, and Mum’s repeated assurances that she wasn’t a broken woman nor did she herself resent Dad and Sherlock helped a lot. I remember none of this, being that I was a clueless kid of seven years old. I just remember everyone being much as they are now. I guess a lot of things can be accepted in families as long as people are happy.

 _Anyway._ Cor, that was a hell of a tangent, wasn’t it?

Dad came into 219 then, belting his dressing gown and yawning. “Pancakes, is it, then?” he said, going to the cupboards to get the ingredients and the pans.

“Thanks, John,” Mum said, rubbing his arm.

“Oh, what else am I good for, but to cater to the two of you,” he grumbled, but he was smiling.

“You’re jolly good at hailing cabs,” I said.

“Ha ha.”

“We were just talking about next weekend. Thanksgiving.”

“Oh, is it that time already? Bloody fantastic. I swear I have dreams sometimes about Estelle’s roast turkey.”

“Roger might be bringing his girlfriend this year.”

Dad glanced at me with an odd expression. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Lily told me. What?”

He shrugged. “Nothing. It’s just – well, I’d have laid dollars that Roger is gay.”

“Me, too,” Mum said.

I frowned. “You think so?”

“He’s asked me some rather pointed questions over the past few years that made me think so. Of course, he could swing both ways.” Dad spooned pancake batter onto the hot cast-iron pan. The smell of cakey deliciousness wafted through the kitchen, making my mouth water. “But that’s never the option people tend to go for, is it?”

“They call it ‘bisexual invisibility,’” Mum said. “If a man’s with a woman, he’s assumed to be straight, but if he’s with a man, he’s assumed to be gay. In either case he could be bi.” Dad just looked at her blankly. She fidgeted. “I guess you, uh…know that.”

“Just a bit,” Dad said, his tone neutral.

I got out the butter and the syrup and jam while Mum poured milk. Dad brought over a plate of pancakes and we all sat down and dug in. “Dad, these are divine,” I said, stuffing a rather enormous section into my gob.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full. You’ll choke to death,” he said.

I swallowed. “But what a way to go.”

We ate in silence for a moment. Mum spoke next. “So, no luck on the Zack front yesterday?” she asked. I’d told her about what had happened on the street the night Jason was here.

My bite of pancake turned dry in my mouth. I choked it down. “No. He was out all day. I didn’t get a chance to talk to him.”

“Give him some time to lick his wounds,” Dad said. “What he saw – well, you can imagine if it were you.”

“Yeah,” I said. I didn’t have to imagine. I just had to close my eyes and remember the sight of him dancing with Tramp Stamp Sophia at Paul Starkey’s party. “I guess I’ll leave him alone for the time being.”

At that moment, there was a rather loud, insistent pounding on the door downstairs. All three of us jumped. “Good lord,” Dad said. We all just looked around, confused. The pounding came again.

“Who on earth is that before eight a.m. on Sunday?” Mum said, frowning.

“I’ll go and see,” Dad said. He got up and went downstairs, leaving the door to the flat open behind him, which meant Mum and I could hear everything. Dad opened the door. “Zack!” he exclaimed.

My stomach did a giant somersault. My hand shot out and grabbed Mum’s arm on reflex.

“Hi, Dr. Watson. I’m sorry to be so – I know it’s early, I just – look, is Genie here?”

Zack sounded rather worked up. I just sat there, paralyzed.

“Um – yes, she is. We’re just having breakfast,” Dad said. “Come in.”

Dad came back into the flat and tossed me a “yeah, I got nothing” sort of look. Zack came in after him, dressed for church, looking a bit wild-eyed. He saw me sitting there at the table and his eyes got even wider. I got to my feet like I was in a daze and wandered over to face him, suddenly hyperaware that I had bed-head and I was dressed in my fleece pajama pants with the penguins on and an old t-shirt of Mum’s that says “I Got Boned At King’s College Anthropology” on it.

Zack just launched into it without preamble. “Okay, look, I was going to corner you on Friday night and ask what was up with Captain Toothpaste there and why the hell you were snogging him but by the time you came back I was too worked up and I didn’t think it’d be the best idea. Then yesterday my parents dragged me to my brother’s test match and I spent the whole day obsessing about what to say and how to say it and by the time we got home I couldn’t even remember my own name so I just went to bed, and now we’re going to be off to church in a bit and I can’t wait any longer so I snuck off and here’s the thing, Genie, it’s just that I really – I mean, I can’t quite – well, you know what we…” He stopped abruptly, like there was a word bottleneck in his throat.

“What?” I said.

Zack shook his head. “Bugger if I know.” He reached out and grasped my face, then he kissed me, right on the mouth. “I’m just making myself nuts.”

“Me, too,” I managed.

“I’m well gone on you, you know.”

I nodded, sniffling a little. God, is this what it feels like? For real? No wonder people go crazy from it. I couldn’t really talk so I just grabbed his lapels and kissed him again.

When we pulled apart he looked a little dazed. He licked his lips. “Pancakes?” he said.

I laughed. “You want some?”

“Love some, but I have to go. Church.”

I nodded, a bit crazily. I felt like I wanted to jump up and down or dance a jig or possibly burst into flames. “Okay.”

“And then we’re going to my grandparents’ house, but I ought to be back later.”

“Text me.”

“Okay.” He smiled, then kissed me one last, quick time, then he turned around – right into the half-amused, half-scandalized stares of my parents. “Uh – sorry to interrupt breakfast,” he said. I suppose “sorry to get off with your daughter right in front of you” would have been a bit much.

“Oh, that’s nothing strange around here,” Dad said.

“It’s just – I figure you’ve got to say things while you have the chance. It’s important.”  
Zack nodded, as if this was why he’d come, to make this announcement, and his task was now complete.

Dad nodded. “Yes. It is,” he said, looking thoughtful.

Zack squeezed my hand, then he was off out the door before I could muster the wherewithal to say anything. Mum came up to me and took my hand. “Genie, my God,” she said. “That was…”

“Random? Awkward? Inappropriate? Embarrassing?”

She touched my hair. “I was going to go with ‘gutsy.’ And romantic.”

I laughed. It sounded a bit like an insane-asylum laugh. “It kind of was, wasn’t it?” I looked from her to Dad. “You two aren’t – uncomfortable? Or mad?”

“It was a bit cheeky of him,” Dad said. “Just march in and snog you.” He chuckled. “Wish I’d had those kind of balls when I was seventeen.” His smile faded. “Or ever, come to think of it.”

The door to 221 opened again and Sherlock came shuffling in, rubbing at his eyes. He looked around at us. “What’s on, then?” he said.

We all laughed. God, where to start?

So I spent the day in a state of high anticipation of when I’d get to talk to Zack again. How could I ever have thought that I didn’t feel anything but friendship for him? Had it always been this obvious, and I’d just been profoundly stupid about it?

He wasn’t able to text me until after supper. _Meet me at the park._ I leapt off my bed, threw on shoes, cast a cursory glance at my appearance in the mirror (same as always, and he apparently didn’t have a problem with it) and ran out with a quick pop-in to Mum to tell her I was going out.

He was waiting for me at the gates, grinning. I ran up and stopped short when I got to him, not knowing what to do. “Um – hi,” I said.

“Hi.”

We stood there fidgeting for a few agonizing moments, not knowing what to do. “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” I finally said. “This is ridiculous. This is us. We’re not awkward!”

“Haven’t been before. I think things get to be different now.”

I grabbed his hand. “Is that better?”

He stared down at our linked fingers for a moment. “Immensely.”

We grinned at each other like a couple of idiots and set off into the park. “Soooooo,” I said. “I guess this means we’re going together.”

“I mean – it could, if – well, that is – if you want.”

“I could. That is, if you – I mean, I’d assumed…”

He made a frustrated noise, stopped walking, turned toward me and kissed me again. “We’re not good at this talking thing,” he said, once he’d finished with my lips.

“Let’s just walk for awhile and get used to the novel state of affairs.”

“Okay.”

So we did. We walked in total silence, holding hands, until that felt normal. Then we talked about normal things, the same things we’d always talked about. How naff his church is, whether there might be a God or not (I thought not, he thought maybe), how his brother at Oxford is shagging everything that moves, how brill my trip to New York is going to be, that sort of stuff. We didn’t talk about Capital-U Us. Maybe one doesn’t have to. Maybe having a relationship is just living your life except there’s somebody else there, too.

And snogs. Which I did get a few more of. They were lovely.

When I got back I went over to 221. Sherlock was at the table on his laptop, Dad was on the couch with some large stacks of newspapers, engaged in some kind of project involving sorting and writing. “Hello, ducks,” he said. He only calls me that when he’s in a good mood. He was fully dressed but barefoot, and Sherlock’s hair was rumplier than usual. I do my own share of observing and deducting around here, and I knew the signs of a recent shag.

“Hey, Dad.” I flopped down next to him.

“Out with Zack, your Mum said?”

“Yep.”

“So that’s all sorted, then?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock intoned. He could probably tell by the way I was sitting or something. Sometimes I ask, sometimes I don’t give him the satisfaction.

“Yes, obviously,” I repeated.

“Good. I like him, Genie. He’s a good lad, always has been.”

“He’ll do well enough for me.”

Dad grinned. “And we know where he lives.”

“Oh, God. What have I let myself in for?”

“I’ve been advised of the dramatics seen in the kitchen this morning,” Sherlock said. “I’m rather sorry I missed them. Although I can’t help suspecting that Mr. Lancaster derived some inspiration for his words or actions from one or another soppy teen romantic comedies.”

“No,” I said. “That was all him. Although it was rather out of character.”

Sherlock met my eyes. “Then I suppose he must have been extraordinarily motivated.”

I blushed. “I guess so.”

I glanced at Dad. He was looking at Sherlock and his face had gone a bit sad, and suddenly I knew that he was thinking about all the years he’d loved him and said nothing, and had thought it was impossible, and all the time that they could have had together if only either of them had done what Zack had just done.

I know that Dad wouldn’t trade having me for anything, and that he doesn’t regret the time he spent with Mum. But I also know that he can feel those things even while he still wishes that he could have spent those years with Sherlock.

Sometimes I don’t envy my dad’s internal life. It must be crowded in there.


	16. 22 November

**The Blog of Eugenia H. Watson, Sweet Transvestite**

 _22 November_

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

My regular life is proceeding apace with stunning ordinariness. Even my brand-new boyfriend (still get a bit of a giggle saying that) has slotted himself seamlessly into my regular existence. It’s only been three days and already it feels like it’s always been this way. He ate dinner here last night and manfully endured the Holmes-and-Watson Two-Man Interrogation and Intimidation Revue and Variety Show, although they already know him so well that it probably didn’t have the impact it would have had on someone new.

He was later rewarded for his heroism with snogs. He seemed appreciative.

School is normal. My chess stagnation seems to have left me and I’m playing better than ever, which is well timed since I have a tournament in less than two weeks. Home is normal. Dad and Sherlock haven’t had a case since last week. Mum’s been at her lab, normal hours, no decomp-y smells.

In other words, I don’t have much to write about. So I think what I’ll do is start writing about things that happened before I started keeping this blog. I was re-reading yesterday’s entry and what I wrote about Estelle, and it made me think of the not-insignificant way that Estelle wrought a bit of an historic occasion in my family this past July.

My family isn’t what you’d call political. Dad and Mum do the ordinary things, like vote, and Sherlock actively avoids any and all knowledge of current events save what might impact crime. I’ve tried to tell him that since there’s no way to predict exactly what _will_ impact crime that it’s pointless to judge any knowledge as useless. The first time I said this, Dad whooped like I’d just won a gold medal and said “That’s my daughter!” Sherlock just scowled. I think he just rationalizes ways to faff off things he doesn’t care about.

The point is that the Watson-Pepperidge-Holmes household is not an activist one. You will not find a rainbow flag or a sticker or a placard anywhere in our house. Nobody’s ever marched or chanted or even written a strongly-worded letter to an MP. I remember being oh, twelve or thirteen, and hearing peers and grownups talk, sometimes with fervor, about gay rights. I never connected it with myself or my family. One day an older kid yelled at me for not seeming to care. “Why should I?” I said. She was agog. “Because your dads are gay!” she shouted.

But like too many people, I’d absorbed the cultural stereotypes. Dad and Sherlock do not wear feather boas or high heels or listen to showtunes, therefore they weren’t “gay” but some other species of person who just lives with and sleeps with and loves another man. As I got older I recognized the wrongheadedness of these ideas.

I went through a political phase when I was fourteen and decided that it was my duty in life to fight the good fight for tolerance, on behalf of my dads who didn’t seem to care fuck-all about it. I tried joining the gay-straight student alliance at Francis. It was entirely populated with what Aunt Harry calls “baby dykes.” Not being one myself, I felt distinctly unwelcome. So I tried another club, this one a city-wide club, for the kids of gay parents. It was wall-to-wall angst and hand-wringing. Kids weeping about their parents’ messy, hostile divorces. Kids weeping about being bullied at school. Kids weeping about their gay parent or parents making their lives _so difficult._

At my first meeting, I waited in vain to hear somebody talk about having a regular life. Two hours in and all I’d heard were the admittedly pretty awful stories about how things could go so terribly awry. I started feeling like I’d won the Gay Parent Lottery or something. How could my life be so normal when all these other kids seemed to be suffering the torments of the damned? I felt bad for them, but I didn’t know what I could do.

After the meeting, I was approached by this very tall Goth woman who introduced herself as Rosalinda. She was one of the group facilitators. “You seem a bit put off by all this,” she said, lighting up a cigarette. “Not what you expected?”

I shrugged. “I didn’t know so many kids had it so bad.”

She nodded. “A lot of them do. What about you? You got it bad at home?”

“No.”

“One of your parents gay?”

“My dad.”

“Your parents divorced then, eh?”

“Yeah, but they still live together.”

“Really?”

“We live in adjoining flats. Me and mum in one, and my dad and stepdad next door.”

“Huh. When did they get divorced, then?”

“I was seven.”

“You hate your stepdad?”

“No. I love him.”

She nodded. “Sounds like you’ve got a nice life, then. Genie, is it?” She peered at my nametag. I never claimed to have amazing handwriting.

“I guess I do.”

She smirked at me. “Let me clue you in, Genie. See, there are loads of kids with gay parents who have nice, regular lives, but they don’t tend to join support groups. They’re too busy living their nice, regular lives. And there’s a few here – I’ll not name names – who have perfectly fine lives, too, but they’re drama queens whose gay parent gives them an excuse for angst. Give them a few years and they’ll be fine. But groups like this are really better suited to kids who need the support.”

“So I should leave?”

“Not unless you want to. You could be part of that support. But I’m guessing that you’re looking more for activism than support.”

“Yeah, I guess I am.”

“You ought to try PFLAG. They’d love you there.”

So I did. And they did. Love me, that is. I was an elfin, fairly well-to-do teenager who adored her happily-married dads and who wanted to help Further the Cause. I think they’d have put me on their posters if I’d let them. They loved me right out of the organization, because after six months of nonstop meetings, focus group, committees, action plans and public events, I was so exhausted I was about ready to throw up at the sight of anything rainbow patterned. I had to quit. And there ended my venture into the realm of gay rights activism.

I should note that Dad and Sherlock had seen me do all this and offered refreshingly little comment except to remind me to be home by curfew. I think Dad knew that I had to work through this on my own.

After my short-lived romance with PFLAG, I started asking some questions of the people this was supposedly all to benefit.

“Have you ever gone to Pride?” I asked Sherlock, a few years back.

“What?” he said, looking at me as if I’d just asked him if he’d ever killed a puppy.

“Pride. You know. Parade? Festival? Gay rights?”

He made a face. “Please. Why would I participate in such an utterly pointless celebration of an arbitrary characteristic of sexual and emotional identity?”

“Because you benefit from the activism of others in the past,” I said, parroting a PFLAG line. “You should honor the efforts of those who’ve come before.”

“I also benefit from the use of electricity and the existence of modern sanitation, but you don’t see me throwing parades in their honor. Society progresses in a logical fashion – most of the time – to the benefit of all. I would hope that I am participating in society’s further progression merely by existing and doing my work. To make my own contribution to future progress is all the repayment that I owe the progress of the past.” He must have seen something on my face, because when he went on, he spoke a little more gently. “Genie, I am glad to live in a time when it is legal and more or less acceptable for me to have married the man I love. But if it were not, I cannot imagine having acted any differently. I’d merely be an outlaw, which I admit, has a certain appeal.”

Dad was a little less forbidding on the subject. “I’ve never felt too comfortable trumpeting my personal life in front of the world,” he said. “I think that tolerance is better supported by living normally and setting an example. I’ve seen it happen.”

“You have?”

He hesitated. “I had a patient once. An older lady. A bit sweet on me, perhaps. She was in hospital for several weeks after a car accident, so I saw a lot of her. She talked a lot. One of the things she talked about was how horrible she thought it was that society tolerated homosexuality.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Really?”

He nodded. “One gets used to ignoring what patients say. Everyone is entitled to an opinion, even if it’s a stupid one. But finally even I’d had enough. You know I don’t often stand up to be counted, Genie. Maybe I should. But one day she was telling me again what a lovely man I was and gosh, wasn’t my wife lucky to have me? She’d said that before, trying to get me to talk about my lovely wife and my two-point-five kids, or what have you. She was just reaching for security, and assurance that I was the right sort, that I was like her. She was just about ready to be discharged, so I thought, what the hell. When she asked if my wife knew how lucky she was to have me, I said she didn’t, because I don’t have a wife, but I do have a husband and he’d better know how lucky he is to have me.”

I laughed out loud. “Yay, Dad!”

“I wondered if I’d done the right thing. It’s not for us to impose ourselves on our patients, they’re vulnerable and need our care, not our judgment. But this – I don’t know, it got to me. She looked sort of horrified for a moment, disbelieving, like I was having her on. I sat down and explained that no, I wasn’t. I showed her some pictures. Of Sherlock, and of you, too, and of all of us together. She was amazed. She had an idea in her head of what ‘that sort of man’ was like, and that idea wasn’t me. We talked for a long time. By the time she was discharged, she was telling me to give my handsome husband a kiss and tell him to eat something. It isn’t earth-shaking, it won’t make headlines, but maybe I changed one person’s mind just by existing.”

“Not by existing, Dad. You spoke up. That’s part of it, too. Nobody’s mind can be changed unless you claim it for yourself.”

“I know. That isn’t always easy.” He sighed. “I didn’t ask for this, Genie. Nothing about me changed. I just fell in love with Sherlock. That came with some baggage, and I fought it for a long time. I don’t feel like a different person now that I’m with him, as opposed to when I was with your mother or the women I dated in the past. But the world now demands that I ‘identify’ as something, that I ‘come out’ and claim a label that seems more and more incidental the older I get. Being gay is supposed to be something you’re born with. I think I must have just been born with the ability to love someone independent of their gender. I don’t know what you call that.”

I grinned. “A superpower?”

He laughed. “Maybe.” His face went thoughtful. “Although – it’s true that I loved women before, but what does it say that the greatest love of my life is a man? If I believed in such things, who’s to say that isn’t a fate that I was born with?”

That made me think, quite a lot. Maybe it wasn’t something he was born with, but something he was born without. Dad and Sherlock are pretty reserved, but you can’t be circumspect all the time when you live with other people. I’ve seen them a few times when they didn’t know I was watching, and sometimes they look at each other and it’s damn near enough to make you gasp. I’ve seen what they really mean to each other underneath the bickering and the long-suffering sighs and the impatience and the crazy madcap adventures. They’re not right without each other. Maybe they were both born with empty spots that only the other could fill.

Now I’m just talking out of my arse, really. But these are things you think about when you’re staring down the barrel of your first possibly-serious relationship. Could I have with Zack what Dad and Sherlock have? I don’t know. I guess we’ll find out.

But back to last July. That’s when the big annual Pride festival happens in London. I had never gone; it did not coincide with my time as a PFLAG activist. I was aware of it, mostly because Sherlock could be counted upon to bitch about the traffic snarls caused by the parade. It must have been near the end of June that Estelle rang me.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Genes, it’s Estelle.” Estelle has a tendency to shorten everyone’s name to a one-syllable nickname. I think it must be an American thing.

“Hi.”

“I wanted to ask you about Pride.”

“What about it?”

“You’re going, aren’t you?”

“No. Hadn’t planned on it. I’ve never gone.”

“Seriously? Why not?”

“Umm – I couldn’t really say. You’ve never asked me about it before.”

“Well, this is the first time I’ve been in London during the festival. I’m surprised, I thought you’d be participating. Aren’t you in PFLAG?”

“I was, for about thirty seconds.”

“We should march in the parade! We could go in with the PFLAGers. I’m a member.”

“You are? Because of Dad and Sherlock?”

“Oh, I was a member long before I met Geej, or you and your family. It’s always been something I thought was important. I’ve never missed a Pride festival, no matter where I’m living. You should come. You and the dads both.”

I laughed. “I’m game, but we’ll never get the dads to come.”

She went quiet. “That’s a shame.”

Later that night I was eating takeaway with Dad in their lounge while Sherlock rummaged endlessly through his approximately eight zillion scrapbooks. “I’m going to go to the Pride parade with Estelle,” I said.

Dad looked up at me, a forkful of rice halfway to his mouth. “Oh, yes?”

“Yeah. We’re going to march with PFLAG.”

“I thought you’d decided that wasn’t for you.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t show my support.” I swallowed, considering my next words. “You and Sherlock should come, too.”

Sherlock snorted. Dad shot him an annoyed look, which he didn’t see because his back was turned. “Do you want us to?” he asked me.

Suddenly, I did. I really, really did. I imagined myself walking in the parade with my dads and being proud, and it felt like something I hadn’t realized I needed. “It’d be really brilliant if you did.”

“Well – we’ll see about that,” Dad said, which is his codephrase for “not in a million years.” Sherlock didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

So the morning of the parade, Estelle and I rode the Tube to the line-up. She was wearing a PFLAG t-shirt and had brought me one, too. Dad and Sherlock had been conspicuously absent from the house when she’d come to collect me. I tried not to be disappointed. It had been a long shot, anyway.

A lot of the PFLAGers remembered me and they were thrilled to see me. I introduced Estelle around and in no time we were kitted up with rainbow flags to wave. We stood around in a huddle, looking about at all the other groups in the parade. We were between the Human Rights Campaign and a rather large, ostentatious float put up by one of the gay nightclubs. Scantily-dressed men and women were hanging all over it.

I was a tad distracted ogling the fit men in the tiny shorts when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around, and my jaw dropped open. “Daddy!” I flung my arms around his neck. He laughed.

“I thought I’d just come take a walk with you,” he said, hugging me back.

“That’s brilliant!” I said. He was wearing a PFLAG t-shirt, too. I looked around, wondering if I’d see a tall curly-haired apparition. “So…”

He shook his head. “Sorry, luv. You know he’d never go in for this sort of thing.”

I nodded, still a bit disappointed. “I know. I just sort of hoped.”

He squeezed me again. “Let’s have one of those flags, then.”

The parade started and we set off down the street. Dad held my hand, Estelle on my other side. Our group was large, over a hundred, full of kids and parents and older people and their adult gay kids, and it was a cheerful, happy little assemblage. The music blared and the crowds cheered and waved rainbow flags at us.

“These people all probably think I’m a lesbian and you’re my understanding dad,” I said, not long after we started.

Dad laughed. “Maybe I need one of those t-shirts that says ‘I’m not gay but my boyfriend is.’”

“Or I could wear one that says ‘I *heart* my Gay Dads.’”

He wasn’t looking at me, but past me. “Genie, look!” He pointed. I turned and saw Aunt Harry and Aunt Clara, standing in the crowd and waving frantically. Clara was pushing the pram and Harry had five-year-old Emily on her hip.

I ran over to the kerb and hugged them. “I didn’t know you’d be here!”

“We come every year,” Harry said. “How’d you get John to march in that parade with you?”

“I asked nicely.”

“Well, congratulations. He never would when I asked him. You wanker, John!” she shouted past me. Dad made a rude gesture in return, but he was grinning.

I ran back to my group. Everyone was muttering and pointing up ahead. “What’s going on?” I asked Estelle.

“Oh, there’s a church up ahead that’s very hostile. There are always protestors outside it, so every year the parade holds a kiss-in on the sidewalk in front to block the view.” She glanced at us. “Want to kiss a stranger for a good cause?”

“I think not,” Dad said. “Genie’s a bit young for that.”

“C’mon, Dad, I’m legally old enough to consent to kiss whomever I want.”

“Not while I’m standing right here!”

We were nearing the church by now. The parade was slowing down as people dashed over to kiss somebody for a few moments and then dashed back. The crowd was a bit thicker here. I grabbed Dad’s hand. “Come on, Dad! Pucker up for tolerance!” I ran toward the glut of people, dragging him along, spluttering and protesting.

As soon as we got in the thick of it, a very fit youngish bloke seized Dad. “Hello, gorgeous,” he purred, and planted one on him. Dad’s eyes went wide with surprise, but I didn’t get to see much more, because at that moment a teenage girl with hair done up in multicolored spikes and wearing a see-through mesh shirt, sans bra, grabbed me and kissed me. It was soft and strange and sort of nice. I went with it for a moment, until she pulled away and winked at me.

“Thanks, cutie,” she said, and disappeared into the crowd.

I turned around and Dad was still being snogged by Fit Lad. Estelle and I giggled a bit, until I heard an unmistakable deep voice from over my shoulder.

“Excuse me. I believe that’s my job.”

I gaped in astonishment as Fit Lad put up his hands in surrender and backed away. Dad stared, shocked. “Sherlock! What are you…”

“Shush, John. What on earth are you thinking?”

Dad turned red. “But – it’s for tolerance!” he stammered. “It didn’t mean…he just grabbed me and…”

“Oh, never mind that. It is simply inappropriate for a man such as yourself to be kissed less than properly, John Watson.” Dad didn’t get a chance to respond before Sherlock seized his face in his hands and kissed him. Dad kissed back at once, grabbing handfuls of Sherlock’s shirt and hauling him closer. Sherlock wrapped one arm around Dad’s back, tilted his head down, and damn. He was not kidding around with this kiss.

“Holy God,” Estelle muttered. Half of me wanted to look away. It lost. People were starting to look now, and wolf-whistles were wafting out of the onlookers.

Dad had one hand tangled in Sherlock’s hair, and right before my partly-scandalized, partly-giddy eyes, he slid his other hand down his back and full-on grabbed Sherlock’s arse. The crowd cheered them on. I cheered too, feeling like I might cry, because somehow I’d gotten both my dads here, and they were being out-and-proud in front of God and everybody, and there was something sweet about seeing them like this, seeing that after all their years together they still had this kind of passion.

Estelle was laughing. “Genie, your dads are damn hot.”

“Don’t say things like that. I’m going to have to dry-clean my brain tonight as it is,” I said.

Dad had pulled out of the kiss by now, but he and Sherlock were still standing there wrapped up in each other’s arms, both of them a bit flushed and grinning. An even fitter young lad than the first came bobbing out of the crowd and grabbed Sherlock’s arm. “Me next! Me next!” he said. Everyone laughed.

“Sorry,” Sherlock said. “I only participate in such activity with my husband.” He slung an arm around Dad’s shoulders. A collective “awww” went up from the nearby bystanders.

I ran up and seized Sherlock’s free arm. “I can’t believe you came!” I said.

He harrumphed. “Well, John was determined to come walk with you, so I thought I’d best observe from a distance. In case anything untoward were to occur. Good thing I got here when I did,” he said, arching an eyebrow at Dad. “I might have lost you to that bit of fluff you were snogging.”

“ _He_ snogged _me,_ you daft git,” Dad said.

“It surely didn’t seem as though you were protesting overmuch,” Sherlock said, but I could tell he was just taking the piss. His smile lurked around the corners of his mouth and his eyes were twinkly. Dad was looking up at him with this kind of goofy, half-dazed half-enraptured look on his face. “So, how much further’s this parade, then?”

“About another mile.”

Sherlock put on his Serious Business face, harrumphing again. “Well, I suppose I’d better accompany you, that is. To guard against any further entreaties upon your person. You never know what sort of lust-crazed shenanigans might befall.”

Dad and I exchanged a look. “Oh, absolutely,” Dad said. “I’m sure I’ll feel much safer from – what was it? Lust-crazed shenanigans, if you’re there.”

Estelle shook her head. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. You just can’t.”

He looked thrown for a moment. “I can’t? Whyever not?”

She grinned. “Not without a t-shirt.”

So that, dear readers, is how I came to be marching in the London Pride parade with both my dads, Sherlock in a PFLAG t-shirt with his bespoke trousers and suit jacket. I walked with Dad, my arm through his, Sherlock on my other side. He just walked, not waving or cheering, looking neither right or left but straight ahead, as if determined to endure this new humiliation wrought upon him by family life.

I glanced at him, then leaned in close to Dad. “Only for you would he do this, you know,” I said.

He smiled, but shook his head. “Not just for me, sweetheart.”

Nothing could have topped that, and indeed, it did not. We reached the end of the parade, where Estelle and I had planned to go into the festival and listen to some music. “We’ll be off home then,” Dad said, reaching out to twine his fingers with Sherlock’s. As I’ve said, they normally don’t do that in public, but there’s something about a gay pride event that seems to free up even reserved people to express things that they’d normally refrain from.

“Aw, really? Just the parade, then?”

“It isn’t our scene, Genie. You and Estelle have fun. We’ll see you later at home.”

“All right,” I said, disappointed. I kissed his cheek, then Sherlock’s. They turned and walked off, still holding hands. As I watched them go, I saw Sherlock look down at Dad, then he bent and kissed his temple. Dad beamed up at him and then they were lost in the crowd.

It was a memorable day. Made even more so a few days later, when I got an email from the PFLAG media organizer. Attached to it was a photo that the PFLAG photographer had taken. It showed me, Dad and Sherlock walking together. I was in the middle with both arms through theirs, grinning like I’d just won the lottery. The photographer had caught Dad and Sherlock looking at each other over my head, smiling their secret nobody-knows-how-mad-I-am-for-you smile, and all three of us in PFLAG t-shirts.

I have it in a frame on my desk. Dad has it in a frame on the mantelpiece. And just a few weeks ago, while looking for one of his business cards, I discovered that Sherlock keeps a copy of it in his wallet.

So, potential best-selling memoir reader who doesn’t yet exist, if somewhere, sometime you are reading this during the month of June, happy Pride. Sometimes it works.


	17. 2 December

**The Blog of Eugenia H. Watson, Girl With the Pearl Earring**

 _2 December_

I am in New York City and it is awesome!

I wanted to write last night but I was so damn tired so I waited until today. This is why Sherlock booked us tickets for Friday when I don’t have to start playing until Monday: jet lag.

So yesterday afternoon our flight left around four o’clock. I don’t have afternoon classes on Fridays so I came home at lunchtime. I’d packed my bags the night before. Sherlock, as usual, had waited until the last minute. I could hear him and Dad bashing about their flat trying to get all his things sorted, while I sat patiently in our lounge with my neatly-packed bags, Mum waiting to drive us to the airport.

He was finally ready at two thirty, and off we went in Mum’s car. Mum and Dad and I chatted about the tournament, and New York, and the things that Sherlock and I might do there when I wasn’t playing. Sherlock didn’t say anything. He was just looking out the window, holding Dad’s hand on his knee.

See, Sherlock has a secret. He doesn’t like to travel. Wait, that isn’t exactly true. What he doesn’t like is being away from Dad. He likes traveling fine when they travel together.

Mum pulled up to the dropoff at the terminal at Heathrow. Dad piled out and hauled our bags out of the boot. I hugged Mum tight. “Good luck, sweetheart,” she said. “We’ll be watching the stream in the evening. Keep us updated.”

“Thanks, Mum.”

I moved to hug Dad. He seemed a tad emotional. “Now, you mind Sherlock,” he said.

I laughed. “Dad, between him and me, which is more likely to faff off on a wild adventure?”

He chuckled. “All right, point. Have fun, though. Try not to get too caught up in the tournament that you can’t see anything of the city. Take loads of pictures.”

“I will.”

Dad turned to Sherlock and they embraced. Sherlock pressed his face into Dad’s neck for a moment. Dad pulled away a little. “Call me when you get there,” he said, quietly, adjusting Sherlock’s lapels.

“All right.” Sherlock reached up and clasped Dad’s hands. “I’ll look after Genie, have no fear.”

“I never doubted it.” He kissed him. “I love you.” Sherlock just smiled and touched Dad’s cheek. He hardly ever says that back, at least, not when anybody else can hear. Dad came back to me. “And I love you, Eugenia.” He squeezed me again and kissed my cheek. “I shall miss you dreadfully.”

“I wish you and Mum were coming.”

“So do we, but someone’s got to hold down jobs in this family,” Dad said, smiling.

Sherlock kissed Mum’s cheek, then looked back over at Dad. They just exchanged nods, then Sherlock turned and started for the terminal with his suitcase. I kissed Mum and Dad both again, then grabbed my own bag and hurried after him. “Thank God that’s over,” Sherlock grumbled. “I do loathe good-byes.” I looked back over my shoulder. Mum and Dad were still by the car, watching us leave. They waved when they saw me look. I waved back, then faced resolutely forward.

The best part of traveling with Sherlock is that he doesn’t tolerate anything less than the best possible arrangements. Dad would have had us crammed into coach, but Sherlock had purchased first-class tickets for us. That would make the ten-hour flight tolerable, at least. After passing through security, we boarded and settled into our seats. I set up my travel chess set at once and got out my notes. I’d be reviewing strategies right up until I was scheduled to play. This would be a standard Swiss tournament, meaning that every player plays the same number of games against opponents who are chosen based on rating and accumulated points according to a totally incomprehensible mathematical formula, with your opponents becoming more and more challenging as you win games, so that by the end of the week the best players are playing each other and so forth. The winner is determined by the player with the highest point total.

Sherlock got out a book and immediately went still and silent. He didn’t speak during takeoff.

It took me about two hours to get bored. “I’m bored.”

“Done studying, then?”

“My eyes are crossing.”

“Read a book.”

“Don’t feel like it.”

“Watch a film. They have them on order.”

“Nothing good. I looked.”

He heaved a sigh. “What would you like me to do? Dance a jig for your amusement?”

“Yes, please.”

“Not bloody likely.”

“Let’s just talk.”

He marked his place and put his book away with a great show of being quite put out. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Tell me stories from when I was little. Or from before I was born.”

“What ‘stories’ would you care to hear?”

I turned on my side and tucked up my legs. “I don’t know. Tell me about when you and Dad first met.”

“Surely you know all about that.”

“Not really. Just that you were flatmates.”

“What more do you wish to know?”

“Was it love at first sight?” I asked, grinning.

He sighed. “Genie, if your aim is to elicit some sort of bedtime story from me about the grand romance you’ve built up in your head between myself and your father, then I suggest you download some teen romance e-books and try those instead.”

“You are no fun at all.”

“So I’ve been told.” He picked up his book. I kept watching him until he finally looked over at me again. “What?”

“Wasn’t it, though?”

“Wasn’t it what?”

“A grand romance.”

He considered this, then a small smile snuck onto his lips. “I can’t disagree with that characterization.” He fidgeted and cleared his throat.

I took pity on him. “So what’s it like, America? What am I to expect?” This is my first trip to America. One hears such things about it. I’ve had people tell me that it’s beyond horrible and people tell me that it’s bloody fantastic. I suppose I’ll find out now who’s right.

“A lot of people commenting on your accent.”

“Really?”

“Indeed. Be prepared for it to be called ‘cute’ an intolerable number of times. Be also prepared for people to think you’re Australian.”

“Australians sound nothing like us.”

“Apparently they do, to Americans.”

“Will everyone have that New York accent?”

“No. Does Estelle?”

“Oh. No, I guess not. She just sounds American.”

“Just be grateful we’re not going to the deep South. You wouldn’t be able to understand anyone.” He thought for a moment. “Americans don’t drink tea, and what they do drink is bloody awful, but they do have lovely coffee, of which they drink truly staggering quantities. Their chocolate is horrid, they will attempt to get you to eat a truly ridiculous amount of food at a sitting, and their telly programs have adverts every five minutes.”

“Blimey.”

“Americans are very – forward. Either they’re very friendly or they’re very unfriendly, and not shy about it either way.”

“Yeah. Jason was that way. Super friendly and sort of touchy-feely.”

“Americans have little regard for propriety or restraint.”

“Sounds like you hate it there.”

“I wouldn’t say that. Every place has merits and demerits.” He pulled a blanket from under his seat and handed it to me. “Try and get some sleep, at least. You don’t wish to be jetlagged for the first round.”

We landed at midnight, although to us it was five o’clock in the morning. Sherlock hailed a cab to take us into the city. He asked the driver to take us over the bridge. I wasn’t sure what that meant, so I just stared out at the New York City skyline, so different from London’s, dominated as it is by the Eye and the bloody Gherkin. “Look, it’s the World Trade Center!” I said.

“So it is.”

“Is that the tallest building in the city?”

“Tallest in America, I believe.”

“And the Empire State Building! Can we go up to the top?”

“I think that can be arranged.”

“What are we driving through right now?”

“Queens, I think.”

“Yup, this here’s Queens,” the driver spoke up. I grinned. He had a real New York accent! “Where you folks from? England?”

“London,” I said. “I’m here to compete in a chess tournament.”

“Chess, huh? Never could get into that game, myself. You seem pretty young for that.”

“I’m sixteen. But I’m very highly ranked!”

The driver chuckled. “I just bet you are, little lady.”

“What bridge are we going to go over?” I leaned up to talk to the driver through his little plastic partition. “The Brooklyn Bridge?”

He laughed again. “Naw, that’d put us downtown, and you folks are going to the Village. We’ll be going over the Williamsburg Bridge. Normally I’d take the midtown tunnel, but I guess your dad there wants you to see the sights, although it’s a bit outta your way.”

“Quite so,” Sherlock said.

“What village are we going to?”

“The chess club is in Greenwich Village, Genie. Our hotel’s just one street away.”

I was a bit giddy. Greenwich Village, for real! I plastered my face to the window as we neared the bridge and swooped over the river into Manhattan. Our driver had decided to play tour guide, which was fine by me. “This here’s Chinatown, you can see there,” he said, deftly weaving the cab in and out of the traffic, still pretty crazy at this time of night. “And in a few blocks we’ll be hitting Soho. I’ll turn north, it’s just a bit up to the Village.”

“We have a Soho in London, too!”

“Do you, now? Soho here stands for South of Houston.”

I frowned and turned to Sherlock. “What does ours stand for?”

“Nothing, as far as I know.”

“Well, we got a few of them abbreviations. Noho, and Tribeca, Bed-Stuy, and the like.” The driver chuckled. “Guess we don’t like saying things that’re too long.”

A few minutes later he pulled up outside our hotel, a modest building of red brick on a tree-lined street. I got out of the cab, staring around at the street. “I didn’t think there’d be this many trees!” Trees lined the pavements, wearing their bare-naked December outfits.

“What did you expect?” Sherlock said, unloading our bags.

“I don’t know. Concrete and glass everywhere?” The driver bid us goodnight and squealed off. “I thought you’d have us at the Plaza or someplace posh like that,” I said.

Sherlock and I went into the lobby. “I thought proximity to the chess club would be more important. You’ll be able to come back here and rest or study if you need to. We won’t forever be needing cabs everywhere, we can walk.”

“Aww, Sherlock! I’d almost think you cared! Picking a hotel for my convenience and everything.”

“Yes, well. Don’t let it get around,” he said, dropping me a wink.

Our room was nice enough. I set up my laptop right away and my full-sized chessboard. Sherlock was on his mobile before he even took off his coat. “John. Yes, we’re here. Safe as houses. You weren’t up, were you? For God’s sake, go to bed. It’s almost dawn there. She’s fine, the flight was fine, everything’s fine, all right? Would you like to talk to Genie?” He turned to me. “You want to talk to your father?”

“Tell him to go to bed.”

“You heard that, then? Yes, all right.” He listened for a moment, then his cheeks went a bit pink. “Well, yes. I, uh – I miss you, too. Yes, very well.” He hung up, harrumphing.

“Aww,” I said.

“Shush. You’d do well to take your own advice.”

I put it off for another hour or so but then fatigue set in and I went to bed.

Today has been brilliant! Sherlock was very patient with me and all the touristy stuff I wanted to see. The Metropolitan Museum of Art was amazing! We went up in the Empire State Building. It was freezing but the view was worth it. I looked toward downtown where the giant spike of the World Trade Center stuck up like a big finger, all by itself. “Is that where the twin towers were?” I asked Sherlock.

“Yes. The new tower was built right near where they stood.”

“Do you remember when that happened?”

“Of course. I was in my twenties. I don’t pay much attention to international events but one could hardly escape knowledge of that.”

I put a coin in the viewer thingie and zoomed in on Central Park and the George Washington Bridge. Sherlock got chatted up while we were there, too. It was rather funny. It was a very determined American woman, thirtyish, very pretty. He was being as unreceptive as possible but she didn’t seem deterred. I wasn’t surprised. Sherlock’s dead handsome, he gets chatted up all the time. He’s fifty years old but he barely looks forty. I’ve seen photos of him from around the time he and Dad met and he doesn’t look much different, except for a bit of gray hair at his temples. Then again, Dad doesn’t look much different, either. He jokes that he aged prematurely until he hit forty and then stopped.

Sherlock finally just walked away from the woman without a word and joined me at the viewer thingie. “Cannot people take a very unsubtle hint?” he grumbled.

“Some people think persistence pays off.”

“I don’t see how it could in this case when it is evident that I am a married man.”

“I hear that can have the opposite effect.”

He snorted. I was trying to spot the Statue of Liberty through the viewer thingie. “John and I came here once,” Sherlock said, sounding thoughtful.

“Yeah? When? On vacation?”

“No, it was for a case. You were just a baby. He insisted that we come up here, just as you did, even though it had no bearing on our purpose.” He glanced over to the other face of the building. “We stood over there. He seemed quite enamored of the view. I spotted two pickpockets and a serial rapist while he gawped at the skyline like a tourist.”

“He _was_ a tourist.”

“You know what I mean.” He sighed, wrapping his coat tighter around him. “Come on, let’s go before we freeze to death.”

We did a bit of shopping – don’t let him tell you otherwise, Sherlock was just as interested as I was in the designer clothing stores – and he took me to dinner to this mad crazy restaurant that seemed utterly dedicated to beef in all its forms. “It’s America, we’re required to eat copious amounts of beef,” he explained, although he himself had nothing but a bowl of lobster bisque. I had barbecued ribs and they were divine. And messy.

“Are we exceptionally attractive?” I asked him in the cab on the way back to our hotel.

“Naturally. Why do you ask?”

“It’s just – everyone is so _courteous._ Waiters and sales clerks and even the bellhop at the hotel. Offering to carry our luggage and help us in any way humanly possible, and all that smiling. It’s kinda creepy. Like they’re all Autons or something.”

“Remember, many service staff here work for tips. It’s in their financial interest to be solicitous.”

“The clerk at that purse store wasn’t working for tips.”

“Expectations of service culture are somewhat different here, Genie. People who work in jobs where they interact with customers are expected to bend over backwards to extend them every conceivable courtesy and to do with sincere pleasure.”

“I don’t think I could do that if I worked in a shop.”

“Then I’d advise you not to attempt to do so in this country.” We were at the hotel by this time. Sherlock’s mobile rang just as we got to our room.

“That’ll be Dad,” I said.

Sherlock smirked, and I knew I was right. “Evening, John. Yes, all’s well. You know, I might regard the fact that this is your second call today as a judgment upon my guardianship capabilities.” He paused, listening, and then flushed pink again. “Oh. Well, that’s different, then. What would you like to hear me say?” He paused again, then cleared his throat pointedly. “John, I cannot possibly say _that._ Because our daughter is sitting right here! Here, speak to her, you are quite ridiculous.” He handed me the phone without a word, then went over to his laptop.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Hello, sweetheart. How is New York?”

“It’s brilliant! We went up in the Empire State Building!”

“I’ve done that. Lovely view.”

“We went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Sherlock took me shopping.”

“Oh Lord, how much did you buy?”

“Not nearly as much as he did. Two new suits, I think.”

“It was one new suit and a jacket,” Sherlock interjected.

“Hear that? Yes. How are you and Mum getting along all by yourselves?”

“Your mum’s fine, but I’m not. I miss both of you terribly already.”

“Aww. I miss you too, Dad. It’s only a week and we’ll be home.”

“Can’t come soon enough. What’s on for tomorrow?”

“Going to the chess club to meet some people. Play a few warm-up games.”

“Are you nervous for the tournament?”

“Not really. I’m in a good position. I’m at the upper end of the ranked players entered but not at the very top, so I’m not expected to win. Takes some of the pressure off. I’ll play better without it.”

“Mum and I are pulling for you. You’ll destroy them all.”

I grinned. “That’s not too likely, but thanks for the vote of confidence. You want Sherlock back?”

“Yes, thanks. Goodnight, Genie.”

“Night, Dad.” I handed the phone back to Sherlock and turned to my laptop. I wished I could call Zack or Skype him, but it was after midnight at home. I’d do it tomorrow.

Like my thoughts had made it so, my mobile went off. Text message.

 _Miss you._

A little shiver went over me. It was Zach.

 _I miss you too. Just thought about calling you._

 _Best not. Supposed to be sleeping. Don’t want the parentals to hear._

 _Le sigh._

 _Le bigger sigh. How is trip so far?_

 _Smashing. Went up in Empire State building today. Ate barbecued ribs._

 _Aren’t you there to play chess?_

 _All chess and no play makes Genie a dull girl._

 _That doesn’t rhyme._

 _It’s a sexist saying in the first place. As if all work and no play don’t make everybody dull, not just boys._

 _Death to the patriarchy?_

 _A-bloody-men. I love having a feminist boyfriend._

 _Hey, an empowered girlfriend benefits me, too._

 _That sounds like you have nefarious intentions, Mr. Lancaster._

 _Not saying a word._

 _Keep an eye on my parents while I’m gone, huh? Dad gets lonesome._

 _Genie, I love you but I am not chatting up your Dad._

 _You what?_ I just sort of stared at the previous message for awhile. He didn’t respond for long enough that I started to get nervous.

 _Yeah. I love you. I know I’m not supposed to this soon. But it isn’t soon. It’s years and years and there’s never been anybody but you, not really. I sound like a schmoozy love ballad. Ugh._

I couldn’t stop grinning. _You can sing me a schmoozy love ballad anytime you want._

 _I am losing major manliness points right now, aren’t I?_

 _Yes, you are, and you’re better off without them._

 _As long as you think so. I gotta go. I need sleep._

 _Okay._

 _Goodnight._

 _Wait?_

 _What?_

 _I love you, too._

 _I’m gonna have good dreams tonight. Night._

When I closed my phone, Sherlock was looking at me, having hung up with Dad while I was texting Zach. “Mr. Lancaster?”

“What was it? My telltale flush? My fidgeting? My silly grin? The angle at which I’m holding my neck?”

“No. You have a specific alert sound for his texts.”

I felt quite stupid just then. “Oh. Right.”

We watched some American telly (he wasn’t kidding about the adverts). I sat down to write this blog entry, which is now finished, and soon it will be bedtime. Tomorrow I will go to the chess club and pick some fights.

Because I have come here to kick ass and take names. And I already know everyone’s name.

* * *


	18. 6 December

**The Blog of Eugenia H. Watson, Jack of All Trades**

6 December

I had such good intentions for this week. I was going to liveblog my entire tournament experience. Use my tablet and make updates to a constantly-renewed document which I could then post in its entirety and it’d be oh-so-virtual. Well, that all went out the window the first time I sat across a chessboard from an actual opponent here.

Sherlock talks about being on a case and not being able to think about anything else, or focus on anything else. I know how he feels, because I get like that when I’m competing. My whole brain clicks over to Chess Mode and even when I’m sitting having a sandwich, I’m seeing moves and countermoves in my head.

This is why I like having Sherlock as a chaperone when I go to tourneys. For one thing, he can (almost) understand the level of chess-playing that goes on in competition. If you can’t follow what’s happening, it gets boring. Second, he doesn’t bug me with conversation and attempts to buck me up between games like Mum and Dad do. I know they mean well, but it’s just distracting. When he’s with me at a tournament and we go for a bite, he doesn’t try to talk to me unless I talk first. He leaves me alone to obsess over the thirty-fourth move of my last game and whether or not it could have left me open to attack from the opposing rook.

So here it is, Wednesday. The tourney is halfway over and I’ve yet to write a blog entry, which leaves me with rather a lot to catch up. I’m taking advantage of some afternoon downtime to do just that. The opponent I was to face this afternoon withdrew from the tournament, so I’ve got some unexpected liberty. Sherlock has faffed off in search of a decent cup of tea and I have another game after dinner, so I’m just holed up in one of the smaller rooms typing away.

Backing up. On Sunday, Sherlock and I had brunch at this little place called French Roast around the corner from the hotel. It’s open twenty-four hours a day. They seemed to be going for a French-cuisine thing but it was pretty casual. I had an omelet, which was roughly the size of my face. Sherlock was right about another thing, too. The coffee here is amazing.

Then, it was time to go to the Marshall Chess Club. I was a little intimidated. The greatest chess minds of all time have played here. This is where the Game of the Century was played between Donald Byrne and Bobby Fischer, who was only thirteen at the time. The minute we walked in, though, I felt like I had found my people. A lot of them knew who I was, and I knew a fair number of them from other tourneys. It was a big frenzy of greetings and handshakes and hugs and introductions. Sherlock let me to it and went and sat in the corner with a book and his mobile. Poor Dad. I bet he gets eight bajillion texts from him today.

I played eight games and won six. The two I lost were both to international grandmasters. I beat one guy who’s got almost a hundred Elo points on me. He seemed impressed. I was kind of impressed myself. I got so into it that I barely looked up until suddenly Sherlock was saying that we ought to get me some dinner. Dinner? Yeah, I’d been playing chess for eight hours straight.

We just went back to French Roast. I was feeling the jet lag a little, and he didn’t say so but I know Sherlock was, too. Contrary to what he’d have you believe, he is human. We went to bed early.

On Monday, the tournament began. I’m not sure how to write about it. It’s not easy blogging about chess games. How do I describe various moves again and again? It’ll be boring to just about anyone else but me and my fellow players, and I have all my sheets to remind me of the games. I can recreate every move later with Leonid and analyze my strategy. He’ll tell me that some of the games I won, I should have lost, and some of the ones I lost, I should have won. It’s rare for him to tell me that a victory was deserved or a loss was inevitable. But that’s why he’s the teacher and I’m not.

I won my first two games on Monday morning. Both were over fairly quickly, which is usually how it goes for me at the start of tournaments. This is a side effect of my lifestyle. See, opponents are matched up partly by Elo rating, and according to Leonid, my level of play is a good hundred points higher than my rating reflects. This is because given my schedule, my classes and other activities, I don’t have as much chance to play in FIDE tournaments where I can earn points. Therefore I get underestimated at the outset and matched with players less skilled. It doesn’t last long, though. As the tourney progresses, players start getting matched up by win-loss record, and that’s when I start getting more appropriate matches.

After my morning games we had some time to kill, so Sherlock and I walked a few blocks away looking for a place to eat. We ended up at this odd corner joint called Gray’s Papaya, which sounds like a fruit market but is actually a hot dog restaurant. It was fantastic! When we got back, I told everyone where we’d eaten and asked them if they knew about it. They all had a good laugh at my expense. Apparently Gray’s Papaya is one of those famous New York landmarks that everyone has to eat at when they visit, like – I don’t know. The Four Seasons? But with hot dogs. Who knew?

By Tuesday night I was at 5-2. I hadn’t drawn any games yet, which is rare. I was feeling confident enough to engage in actual conversation over dinner, at some pizza place that one of the other players recommended. Sherlock didn’t eat. I think I ate enough for both of us. The pizza was huge and floppy and greasy and cheesy and disgusting and absolutely brilliant. I wasn’t sure how I ought to eat it until I saw people around me folding up the slices, so I did the same.

“I’ve never seen you play like this,” Sherlock said. “You’re being faster, more decisive.”

“I’m feeling well sharp.”

“It shows. Your first opponent this morning didn’t know what hit him.”

I grinned. “I know.” He’d been a cocky guy in his early twenties with fifty rank points on me who’d sat down with almost an eyeroll, thinking about how stoutly he was about to trounce me, and I’d sent him running away with his tail between his legs. In twenty-nine moves. Because that’s how I roll.

“Leonid will be thrilled.”

“I can’t think about that while I’m playing. Or about you, or Mum and Dad watching. I have to play the board before me.” I took a bit bite and chewed. “Of course I’m never really playing the board.”

“You’re playing the person sitting across from you.”

“Right.”

Sherlock stared off into space, his eyes far away. “You want to know the truth?” he said, out of the blue.

I had no idea what he was talking about. “What truth?”

“About me and your father. Our…what was it? Grand romance.”

“Oh! Of course I do!”

“What you just said, about playing the person, not the board. It – recalled something to my mind.” He went quiet, his ‘thinky thoughts’ expression on his face. “The first night we met, John shot a man to save my life.”

I went very still. “What?” Sherlock just looked at me. I’d heard him and he knew it. “He – _shot_ a man?”

“Yes. Not a very nice man,” he amended, the corner of his mouth quirking a bit. “We were pursuing a serial killer who made his victims appear to have committed suicide. He compelled them at gunpoint to choose between one of two pills, one harmless and one poison. Then he’d take the other.”

The horror of being faced with such a choice flooded me. “That’s diabolical.”

“Indeed. I found myself on the receiving end of this situation. I must admit that it was entirely my own fault. I was fascinated by the man’s methods and allowed myself to be drawn in. John discovered what had happened and tracked me. I was about to swallow the pill I had chosen when he shot my captor through two sets of windows from a hundred meters away.” He gave a little sigh. “He saved my life. At least, he thought he did.”

“He thought he did?”

“The truth is that I was in no danger. The murderer’s gun was fake, as I had already determined. All I had to do was walk away, but he…” Sherlock fidgeted a bit. “I could not resist the chance to prove myself better than his game, to choose the correct pill, the one that would spare me but kill him. I still believe that I was correct. Your father had no way of knowing this, of course. He believed me to be under forcible coercion, and that by shooting my captor he was saving me. I have never corrected this misapprehension, although given how well he knows me, he must suspect.” Sherlock folded his hands on the table and looked right into my eyes. “Genie, your father appears to be an ordinary man, but he is not. I’ve no doubt that you know this. It was that night that I first learned of it. He was the first person I had ever met who confounded my expectations, and he has continued to do so over our long, convoluted association. There are very few people in this world whom I like and even fewer whom I respect, and only one whose opinion of me matters. Long before I met him, I had committed myself to a life of solitude. I did not believe myself desiring or even capable of such a banal, inconvenient emotion such as love. I had seen what it does to people, and how many crimes are committed in its name. I thought myself above such concerns. I did not think there existed such a person alive who’d be capable of swaying me away from this belief. As I said, your father has a habit of confounding my expectations.” He nodded at my plate. “Finish your dinner, we’ve got to be off to the club soon, you’ve a game in half an hour. I’m going to settle our bill. I’ll be waiting outside.” He got up and swirled off.

I just sat there, staring at my half-finished Reuben sandwich (oh my god so tasty). Sherlock had just laid a lot of stuff on me. I knew my father had served in a war, and I also knew that he’d killed at least one other person in self-defense as a civilian (because I saw it happen), but I’d had no idea that he’d shot a man the very first night he’d known Sherlock. Why had he never told me? Was he afraid I’d be shocked or traumatized? That ship has well sailed, I think.

And why had Sherlock suddenly decided to unburden his soul to me tonight? But, then again – had he? He hadn’t really told me anything I didn’t already know (except for the whole shot-a-man bit), I’d just never heard it from his own lips before. I’d known that Dad was a surface-unassuming, secretly-badass man, and that Sherlock was quite helpless to control how he felt about him. I’ve no doubt that if he could have ripped it out of himself early on to preserve his dispassionate state of unattachment, he would have. But it’s too late now. He’s committed. He’s adjusted his life expectations, and they now include my father’s love and their life together, which includes me and mum.

I went outside. He was standing on the pavement, watching the people go by. Without a word, we fell into step and walked back to the club, where I won another game.

This morning he was quiet, and so was I. I’m feeling a little homesick. I miss Mum and Dad and Zack and Baker Street. I was so excited to be here, and I still am, but now I’m starting to feel excited to go home, too. Home to where people drive on the proper side of the road and the shop clerks don’t grin at you like Disney puppets.

I lost my morning game. It didn’t help my mood. “Don’t look so downhearted,” Sherlock said when I joined him in the lounge afterwards. “You’re still running one of the best records of the tournament.”

“I should have beaten him. I’ve got twenty points on him.”

“You’ve beaten players with higher ratings than you, it stands to reason that the opposite will sometimes occur.”

“Oh, hang you and your logic,” I said, but I was smiling a little. I leaned into his side and rested my head on his shoulder. “I miss home.”

“We’ll be back there soon enough.”

“You miss Dad?”

He hesitated. “Very much,” he said, quietly.

“I don’t think I ever said thanks for coming with me on this trip,” I said.

He looked down at me. “No thanks are required. I believe such things are my responsibility as a parent, are they not?”

“Still. I know how much you hate being away from your work.”

“That hate is somewhat mitigated by my enjoyment in watching you play.”

I grinned. “You mean, your enjoyment in watching me kick ass?”

“I believe the two are synonymous,” he said, smirking at me.

It was then that one of the FIDE officials came up to tell me that my afternoon game was cancelled due to withdrawal of my assigned opponent, and my next game wouldn’t be until after dinner. Sherlock went off in search of tea and I came in here to start this blog entry.

It’s four o’clock now. I’d better get some dinner before my next game, at six.

Where the hell is Sherlock, anyway?

 _later_

Sherlock has not come back from his tea-errand. I’m starting to freak out.

I went to find him so we could go get dinner. He wasn’t in the lounge, he wasn’t anywhere in the club. Nobody had seen him. I texted him and got no answer. I even tried calling, no answer.

I walked to Gray’s Papaya by myself and got a hot dog. _Going to Gray’s Papaya for dinner. Meet me there._ I spent the whole time I was eating watching for him, looking for his black coat swirling toward me. He didn’t come.

 _He’s just caught a whiff of something interesting and gone off after it. He does that. He’ll turn up for my evening game._ I didn’t really believe this. Sherlock is easily distracted, too true, but I didn’t honestly think he’d abandon me on some random quest without a word, and not answer my texts, of which I have now sent at least a dozen.

I hung around the lounge for as long as possible before my game, waiting for him, but he didn’t show up. I finally had to go take my place at the board. I was super distracted and I played abysmally. My opponent won in a quick hour-long game. I hardly cared, all I wanted to do was run and see if Sherlock was back.

He wasn’t. I’m still at the club. I’m going to wait for a bit to see if he shows, then I’ll go back to the hotel.

 _later_

I can finally type again. Had a bit of a hysterical crying jag.

Sherlock is gone. He’s just gone. He isn’t here. He is nowhere. Before too long we’ll be upgrading his status to _missing._

Right after my last update I went and found Jason Fitzwallace, the president of the Marshall Chess Club and more or less our host for this tournament. “Hello, Genie,” he said, cheerily. “Bit of a rough one, that last game, huh?”

I didn’t care about that, not one little bit. “Mr. Fitzwallace, I think I might have a problem. It’s my dad. I can’t find him anywhere. He went out just after lunch looking for a good cup of tea and he hasn’t come back. He isn’t answering my texts and calls and that isn’t like him. He missed my evening game.”

His expression turned concerned. “He’s been very attentive so far.”

“Yes, I know! This just isn’t like him. I don’t know what to do.” My voice shook a bit on that last.

“Of course. Don’t worry. Let’s make some calls.” He put his arm around me and took me to the club’s office. He and his assistant called the police and the hospitals to see if perhaps he’d been in some kind of accident. They came up empty. I just kept texting him and calling him. Nothing. It was unnerving. Sherlock can no more ignore a text message than he could stop blinking.

I thought about calling Dad. _No, not yet. Wait until you’re sure it’s serious._ I was having more and more difficulty imagining a scenario that would explain all this that didn’t involve catastrophe of some kind.

He wouldn’t leave me alone in a strange city, not without a word. He just wouldn’t.

Jason Fitzwallace offered to take me back to his house with his wife and kids and stay the night, so I wouldn’t be alone, but I just wanted to go back to the hotel.

I checked at the front desk. No messages for me or for Sherlock. I ran up to our room, hoping against hope that I’d burst in and find that he’d just fallen really deep asleep or something.

The room was empty. All our luggage was still there, including his. I sat down on the bed and called him again.

I heard his phone ring. From inside the room.

His phone was sitting on the little table by the window. I picked it up. My hand was shaking. All my text messages and voicemails were on it, unread.

Sherlock would never, and I mean never, leave without his phone. Not if he had a choice.

I called Dad.

“Hello? Genie?” He sounded asleep. It was after one o’clock in the morning at home.

“Dad?” I could hear my voice starting to waver and go all high-pitched.

“What’s wrong?” He was instantly awake.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what to do. Something’s happened. Sherlock’s gone.”

“What? What’s happened? He’s – he’s what?”

I told him the whole sequence of events. “He wouldn’t do this, Daddy, he wouldn’t leave me alone, he wouldn’t leave his phone, something must have happened to him. He’s just gone and I don’t know what to do.”

“No. No, he wouldn’t leave you alone.” Dad sounded just as sure about that as I was. “Genie, listen to me very closely, all right? I want you to stay in your hotel room. Do not leave. Do not, I repeat, do _not_ go out and try to look for him. Stay where you are.” I could hear rustlings and something slamming about and I knew that he was getting dressed and packing. “I’m coming over there, right now, as soon as I can get a flight. I’m going to call Mycroft. He will handle everything. He will talk to the American police. Someone may come to ask you questions or take you somewhere. If they are from me or from Mycroft, they will know the password. You remember the password?”

“Yes,” I said, my voice all thick now.

“If they don’t know the password, do not open the door, do not talk to them. Call Mycroft and tell them someone’s trying to talk to you.”

“Daddy, what is all this? What’s going on? You sound like you already know what’s happened?”

He sighed. “Sweetheart, I don’t want to scare you.”

“I’m already scared! Don’t keep things from me, that makes it worse! I’m not a baby, I need all the information you can give me.”

“There are people in the world who would hurt Sherlock if they could. There are others who would want to use him, for his skills.”

“You think somebody took him?”

“Unless he’s been hurt or in an accident and can’t communicate, that’s the only explanation that makes any sense.” Dad sounded all stony and determined, although I knew what this had to be doing to him inside. “But I don’t have time to talk about it now. You mind what I said. I will be there as soon as I can. I’ll call you when I’ve got a flight.”

“Okay,” I whispered. “Hurry.”

“I’m hurrying, darling. Stay where you are. And Genie – don’t tell anyone else about this. Not Zack, not anybody. If Mr. Fitzwallace asks, say you’ve heard from Sherlock and he’s fine and everything’s sorted.”

“Okay. I love you.”

“I love you, too. Try and get some sleep.” He hung up.

And then came the hysterical crying jag.

I had a shower and put my pajamas on. Sleep. Sure, right. That’ll happen.

I just sat on my bed and looked around the room, like Sherlock might pop out of the walls or suddenly materialize. I looked over at the door and realized I hadn’t bolted it. I hurried over to secure the deadbolt and the chain.

That’s when I saw it. On the floor, behind the door where I hadn’t seen it when I came in.

It was the small printout of the photo of me, Dad and Sherlock at last summer’s Pride parade. The photo that Sherlock keeps in his wallet. He’d had it tucked behind some business cards, folded in half. It could not have fallen out on accident.

He had dropped it. On purpose.

I thought back to his odd confessional to me the day before. His sudden desire for tea. He’d come back here and left his phone, and this photo.

 _He knew._ He knew somebody was following him, or watching him, or what have you. He’d known something was going to happen.

If I ever get him back, after I’ve hugged him silly, he’s going to get a very thorough being-killed.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The last line is a bit of a lift from Buffy, or rather from Giles, who uttered a variation of it in the episode "A New Man."_


	19. 8 December

**The Blog of Eugenia H. Watson, Who Can’t Be Arsed To Think of a Clever Title Right Now**

 _8 December_

I’ll get this out of the way up front: still no sign of Sherlock. From the time I last saw him it’s now been – lemme check the time – two days, eight hours. I am on the plane home. I’ll catch you up, don’t worry, Mythical Nonexistent Blog Reader Who Is Rapidly Becoming My Secret Imaginary Friend and Confessor.

I managed to get some sleep that first night. Pure adrenaline makes you crash pretty hard once the rush is over. I woke up to my phone ringing. It was Dad.

“Any sign of him?” He didn’t even say hello.

“No. I’ve been in the room the whole time.”

“I’ve got a flight out. I’ll be boarding here in a few minutes I ought to be there by afternoon.”

“Dad, I – I want to keep playing in the tournament.”

He sighed. “I don’t like the idea of you leaving the hotel alone.”

“It’s only one street over. I can’t just sit here, I’ll run mad. Anyway, Sherlock would want me to play.” I hated the way that sounded, like he was dead and I was honoring his last wish, or something.

“Well – all right. But stay at the club, don’t wander about. I’ll come there when I arrive.”

“Okay. See you soon. And Dad?”

“What?”

“We’re gonna find him.”

He was quiet for a moment. “That’s right, Genie. We are. I’ll see you soon.” He hung up.

I sat there for a few moments, gathering my nerve, then I got in the shower. By the time I was ready to leave it was too late for me to get breakfast, but there would be coffee and donuts at the club.

When I opened the door, there was a man standing there.

After I recovered from my near heart attack, I observed that he was not making any hostile moves. “Miss Watson?” he said, politely.

“Yes?”

“Your uncle sent me. I’m to watch over you.” He had a Yorkshire accent. He was from home. How had Mycroft gotten him here so fast?

I remembered Dad’s warning. “What’s the password?”

He nodded approvingly. “Stradivarius.”

I eyed him for another moment. That was the password. But could this man have overcome the real bodyguard and tortured the password out of him?

I was starting to see how people become paralyzed with paranoia. “All right, then,” I said. “I’m going to the chess club for my tournament.”

“I’ll be going with you.”

“Okay.”

He walked at my side the whole way. He didn’t offer any introductions or small talk and I didn’t, either. I was too distracted to make conversation, anyway. My phone rang as we were walking up to the club, so I sat down outside to answer it. It was Mum. “Hi, Mum,” I said.

“Are you okay, Genie?”

“I’m okay. Mycroft sent me a bodyguard.”

“Did you…”

“He knew the password. It’s all right.”

“Your dad said you were going to keep playing. Are you sure?”

“Mum, I’m going to go crazy otherwise. I don’t care if I lose every game, I just want to think about something else. I need the distraction.”

“I certainly understand that. Well, your father’s plane left half an hour ago. He’ll be there soon, so you just hang on.”

“I wish everybody would stop worrying about me!” I exclaimed. “I’m not the one who’s missing, or maybe hurt, or even…” I couldn’t finish.

“Don’t say that. Don’t even think it. You know how clever Sherlock is. He’s going to be just fine.”

“But, Mum – what if he, what if…”

“Genie. Don’t think like that.”

I sniffed and wiped at my eyes. “I don’t want to lose him.”

“None of us do. We’re not going to.”

“Dad would never get over it.”

“Nothing bad is going to happen.”

“You don’t know that!”

“I know that it won’t help you or anybody to assume the worst.”

“Yes, it will. If I assume the worst, then I can only be pleasantly surprised.”

Mum sighed. “I’m going to try and stay optimistic, sweetheart.”

“I’ll try, too, but I can’t help it if a little fatalism sneaks in.” I shut my eyes. “I miss you, Mummy.”

“Oh, Genie. I miss you awfully. I’ll be seeing you soon. You call me anytime, day or night, if you need to talk.”

“Okay. I gotta go, I’ve got a game soon.”

“I love you, sweetheart.”

“Love you, too.” I hung up. Me and my attack dog went inside the club.

Jason Fitzwallace was waiting for me inside. “Genie! Any news of…”

“It’s all right, Mr. Fitzwallace. I’ve heard from my dad, he was called away on an emergency at work. My other dad is on his way here. In the meantime, this is Mr…Croft. He’s sort of a temporary chaperone.”

He looked relieved. “Oh, I’m so glad. Well, welcome, Mr. Croft. Genie, you’re playing in ten minutes.”

“Let me grab a cup of coffee and I’ll be ready.”

And strange as it sounds, I was. I was more than ready. If I couldn’t go out and round up the usual suspects and conduct badass interrogations to find Sherlock, if I couldn’t pound the pavement and order surveillance and mobilize a task force, at the very least I could trounce this poseur sitting across the chessboard from me.

And trounce her, I did. My first opponent conceded after an astonishingly brief game of fourteen moves. “You’ve got me at checkmate in twelve moves,” she said.

“Eight,” I corrected. I shook her hand and moved on to the next.

Four more opponents fell that morning and afternoon. I wouldn’t have even stopped for lunch, but Mr. Croft made me eat. I dragged him to Gray’s Papaya, which had acquired a strange talismanic quality for me, and had the amusing diversion of watching him discover the wonder of their hot dogs.

I didn’t get a break until three o’clock. My next opponent was still playing his current game and they looked like they’d be at it for awhile. Mr. Croft and I went for a coffee from the nearest Starbucks.

When we got back, Dad was sitting in the lobby.

My self-control took a bit of a hit at the sight of him. Dad was here, that meant everything would be okay and I could stop being brave and just go ahead and freak the hell out if I needed to. He stood up and smiled at me and I couldn’t even talk, I just ran and flung myself into his arms. “Genie,” he said into my neck, hugging me so tight he lifted me off the ground a little. Not much – he can’t, he’s only three inches taller than me.

I drew back and looked at him. He looked exhausted and upset and about ten years older than he usually looks. “Are you okay?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No. But this isn’t about me. Are _you_ okay?”

“I’m dealing. I won four games today.”

He forced a smile. “Good. That’s good.”

“Dad, what did Mycroft say? What’s going on? Has he been able to find anything out?”

“I just talked to him. There’s nothing yet. They don’t have CCTV cameras here like we have at home. There are cameras in the lobby of your hotel. They have him on film leaving the hotel lobby, alone, just after four o’clock. None of the cab companies picked him up. Mycroft’s people are canvassing the neighborhood looking for anybody who might have seen him. They’ve double-checked all the hospitals and morgues and police stations, but he didn’t turn up in any of those places.” Dad stopped and took a deep breath. He rubbed a hand through his hair like he was buying himself time.

“Nothing, in other words,” I said.

“Yeah. Nothing.” He looked past me into the club. “When’s your next game?”

“Fifteen minutes. It’s my last of the day.”

His mouth worked and he looked a little shamefaced. “Genie, I – would you be upset if…”

“Go. Dad, go. Seriously.”

“Mycroft’s arranged for me to be a consultant to the police and the people he has here looking. Nobody knows Sherlock like I do.”

“Then you’re wasted here. You’d just be distracting me. Go find him, please.”

He looked relieved, and pulled me into another tight hug, then kissed my cheek. “Text me when you’re done, I’ll meet you at the hotel.”

“Okay.” He still looked worried. “Dad, Mr. Croft will look after me. Promise.”

“All right, then.” He exchanged a nod with Mr. Croft and left, turning back when he got to the door. I waved, and then he was off.

I turned to Mr. Croft. “All right. Time to beat up on somebody.”

As it turned out, my evening game was a bit of a marathon. Four hours I slogged it out with this bloke from Michigan. We were very evenly matched. We were the last ones playing and by the time we were done, everyone else was huddled around us, watching. There were only ten pieces left on the board by the time I checkmated him. Everyone clapped.

I was tempted to go out for coffee with some of the other players, but Mr. Croft was giving me a stern look so I declined. I texted Dad that I was on my way to the hotel, and within twenty minutes I was safe in my room with Mr. Croft outside the door. Dad arrived half an hour later, looking even more tired. “Anything?” I said, getting up off the bed to hug him.

He shook his head. “No. Mycroft’s lead investigator is about 98% sure that Sherlock’s been taken out of the country. The trail is pretty cold. The team’s going to send the video of Sherlock in the lobby here to my computer so I can look at it. They’re hoping I see something.” He sighed. “What are you doing?”

“Watching ‘Close Encounters of the Third Kind’ on the telly.”

He put on a pretty convincing smile. “Brilliant, I love that film.” He sat on the bed propped up against the headboard. I clambered up next to him and cuddled up to his side a bit. He put his arm around me and I tried to pretend that everything was okay. It didn’t really work out very well.

We stared at the screen for a bit. I don’t think either of us was really watching. “Where is he, Dad?” I whispered.

He was quiet for a moment. “I wish I knew, Genie.” He sounded so hollow, it broke me a little bit.

I looked up at his face. Maybe I could get him talking about something happier. I could stand to hear something happier, too. “Did you propose to Sherlock, or did he propose to you?”

He smiled a little. “Don’t you remember?”

“No. I don’t know if I ever knew. I remember the wedding. I remember you two sitting me down and telling me that you were getting married. I was confused because I’d sort of been thinking that you already were and I didn’t really understand what would be different.”

“Not much was,” he said, chuckling a bit. “Just this.” He held up his left hand.

I touched the gold wedding ring there. “Is it engraved?”

“Yes.” He slipped the ring off his finger and handed it to me.

On the inside of the band was inscribed the word ‘Always’ and both their initials. “Does it mean something? Besides the obvious, that is.”

He put the ring back on. “Yes, I suppose it does.” His tone told me not to inquire further, so I didn’t.

“So, who proposed? It was you, wasn’t it? Finally nagged him into it.”

That got a real laugh, albeit a brief one. “No, he asked me.”

“Really?” I was honestly surprised. I had trouble picturing Sherlock suggesting any kind of change to the status quo. Where Dad was concerned, he liked to keep things just as they were.

“Really. Got down on one knee and everything.”

“You’re having me on.”

“I swear I’m not!” he said, smiling now, holding up his hands to demonstrate his innocence. “I suppose I ought to have been suspicious when the date night was actually his idea. We went out for a nice dinner then we walked through the park and we sat by a fountain and he got this little box out of his pocket and knelt and – blimey, I haven’t thought about this in awhile. He said if he was going to do this he’d damn well do it properly. I was so stunned I could hardly see straight. I thought he must have been taking the piss.”

“That would have been awfully cruel of him.”

“You know, it was all quite revealing. It told me that he took it seriously For once he didn’t crack smart, or make a cutting remark, or act flippant, like it didn’t really matter and he was just putting it on to humor me. He was very direct. Not flowery or gushy, which wouldn’t have been like him. He just told me that he loved me and wanted us to be together always, and asked me if I’d marry him.”

My lower lip trembled a little. “Awww. Did he get teary?”

“No. I did, a bit. Don’t mind telling you. But when I said yes, of course I would marry him, and I may have called him a daft git for thinking otherwise or something along those lines, he just beamed this smile at me, like…” He sighed. “You know.”

I nodded. I did.

“So there you have it. I said yes. There may have been some snogging at that point. Then I asked him what was in the box, because, well – men don’t tend to wear engagement rings, and I certainly wasn’t keen to be seen sporting a diamond solitaire. He got a bit embarrassed and handed me the box. It was empty.”

“Empty? He proposed to you with an empty ring box?”

Dad chuckled, remembering the moment. “He said he needed the prop.”

I laughed with him, and for a moment, we forgot.

Dad’s mobile rang off a text message. “Oh, it’s the video footage. Come on, let’s have a look.”

We went to the table and I looked over Dad’s shoulder as he loaded the clip. He played it and we saw Sherlock emerge from the lift, cross the lobby and disappear out of frame. It was perhaps ten seconds of him. It made me feel both better and worse to see his image there, whole and alive and right here, knowing that now he was gone.

Dad replayed it, at a slower speed. “Look,” he said, pointing. “Right there, just as he comes into view, he looks directly at the camera just for a moment. It’s a signal. We’re supposed to be seeing something. _I’m_ supposed to be seeing something.”

We watched it again. I just saw Sherlock walking. After that first glance at the camera, he kept his eyes front. Then something did start to seem strange on repeated viewings. “Dad, what’s he doing with his hands?”

“I know. That’s strange. He’s fidgeting with his fingers. And he’s not wearing gloves. He always wears gloves when he’s going outside. And he doesn’t fidget.” Dad played it again, even slower, and again. I couldn’t tell what was going on, but Dad suddenly went still and straight and I knew he’d just figured something out. “He isn’t fidgeting. Those are _numbers._ ” He reached over and grabbed a pen and paper from the desk.

“Numbers?”

“He’s fingerspelling. It’s sign language.” Dad made two columns on the paper, labeled R and L, and played the video again, as slow as it would go, writing down a number in each column. He had six pairs of numbers by the time Sherlock passed out of vision. “He’s making one number with each hand, in six pairs. It’s a code.” He stared at the pad.

“A code for what? What kind of code? Why didn’t the police notice this?”

“They might not have recognized it. British sign language is different than American.”

“It is? But – they’re both English.”

“Actually, they’re not. Sign language isn’t English, it’s a unique language all its own, so American and British signing is completely different. The number fingerspells are similar to the American ones but not identical, especially for six through zero.”

“I didn’t know you knew sign language.” The fact that Sherlock did was so little of a surprise that I didn’t even need to remark on it.

“I know a bit. Sometimes Sherlock and I use it. It’s handy. Silent and covert and doesn’t depend on being within hearing distance.”

“So what’s the code?”

“Probably a book code. He’d have kept it simple so I’d recognize it. There was a book code in one of the earliest cases we worked together.” He was looking around. “The book must be in this room, the one he used.”

“How do you know it’s in the room?”

“He obviously knew he was being followed. He came back here and left his phone and that photograph, so the book had to have been here, too. Was he reading something?”

I grabbed Sherlock’s book from off the nighttable. “He finished the two he brought so he bought the new David Mitchell on Tuesday.”

Dad flipped the book open. “The numbers are pages and words. First number is the page, second number is the word on that page.” He started writing, flipping pages, while I waited in suspense, chewing my nails. Six words and we might find him.

When Dad finished, he sat back and shut his eyes. “What’s it say?” I demanded.

He glanced at me. He didn’t look hopeful or encouraged. He just handed me the paper.

DON’T SEEK SCAR FINE STAY WAIT

“What? Scar, what?”

“He means you.”

“So he picked the word ‘scar’ to mean me?”

“He didn’t have much to work with, luv, he could only use the first nine pages and the first nine words on each page. He’s telling us not to look for him. Like that’s going to happen.”

“Scar fine,” I repeated. Dad was intentionally not looking at me. “That’s how whoever it was got him to just walk out, isn’t it? They threatened me.”

“Probably.”

Oh, God. Now the guilt. Guilt guilt guilt. “Dad, I’m – I’m sorry…”

“No, don’t you dare,” he said, turning to face me, his eyes blazing. “This is not your fault.”

“But – they used me against him. If he didn’t care they couldn’t do that.”

“That’s not a trade anybody is willing to entertain,” he said.

I didn’t say anything else. I knew all the rationalizations and the logical arguments. But the awful truth was that if we never got Sherlock back, I would always be the lever that they used to pry him out of safety and into harm’s way. I didn’t know what I’d do with that. Or what Dad would do with that.

Dad went back to Mycroft’s team the next day while I played my last three games. Coming in to the last day I was sitting on ninth place, out of forty players. Not too shabby. I couldn’t mathematically win, but I could improve my standing if I won at least two of those games. I buckled down and tried not to think about Dad or Sherlock. I was mostly successful. I won all three of my games, which was honestly more than I expected.

Dad showed up for the closing of the tournament, which was nice of him. It was good to see him in the audience. I got a certificate for my fifth-place finish, and the FIDE officials said I’d be earning thirty more rank points.

He hugged me tight when I met him in the lobby. “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart. Sherlock would be proud, too.”

“I just want to go home now,” I said, feeling more tired than I would have thought possible.

“I know. I got your flight changed so you can leave tonight.”

I pulled back, a dull horror coming over me. “You mean, so _we_ can leave, right?”

Dad bit his lip. “I can’t leave yet, Genie. I just can’t.”

“But – you said he’d been taken out of the country! Can’t you help the team from home?”

“This is still where he was last seen. We’ve still got leads to follow up here.”

I was starting to panic. I thought I’d held it together right well for someone whose dad up and vanished into thin air, but now the adrenaline from the tournament was gone and home was beckoning and all I could think was that I couldn’t leave both of them here, I just couldn’t. Not both, not both, not both, was all I was hearing. “Dad, you’re not an investigator, you’re a doctor!”

“And I’m the world’s foremost expert on Sherlock Holmes, if such a thing exists, and they need my help.”

“I get that, but…” The tears were starting. I didn’t want to play that card but it wasn’t like I could stop myself. “Dad, please come home with me. Please. I can’t not have either of you there.”

He grabbed me up and hugged me again. “Oh, God, sweetheart, I want to go home with you very badly. But I can’t. I have to keep looking.” He drew back and took me by the arms, looking right into my eyes. “I know you’re feeling scared and emotional. I came over here to make sure you were okay and look after you. Now you’re going home to your mother and I’m staying here. Genie, you’re my daughter and I love you more than you can possibly know, but now I need you to be at home, safe with Mum, because I have to focus on my husband. I hope you can understand that.”

I looked in his eyes, and I saw that he was scared and exhausted and he really needed me not to fight him on this. I knew in my head that I shouldn’t, that he was right, and that I’d be fine flying home on my own and once I was there I’d feel better, but all I wanted was just to cling on tight like one of those monkey babies and never let him out of my sight again.

But that wouldn’t help. “Okay, Dad,” I said, swiping at my streaming eyes.

He sighed. “Thank you.” He kissed my forehead. “I will come home soon, I promise.”

“Not alone, right?”

“Not if I can help it.”

So here I am on the plane. Dad and I just about hugged each other into hernias when he put me on the plane. I talked to Mum, she’ll be there to collect me when I land. It’s a nonstop flight so I can’t possibly screw it up; I’m not exactly functioning up to factory specs just now.

The seat next to me is really, really empty.


	20. 11 December

**The Blog of Eugenia H. Watson, Heir to the Holy Rings of Betazed**

 _11 December_

Update up front: Dad’s not home yet. Still no sign of Sherlock or any information about where he is. Today is Monday. He went missing last Wednesday afternoon. Soon it’ll be a week he’s been gone.

I’m trying not to think about it, but it’s damn hard to think about anything else.

With the time zone change, I didn’t land in London until early morning on Saturday. Mum was there to meet me. When I saw her, I just lost it completely. My dealing-with-it reserves had been used up. I went to her and she hugged me and I just sobbed like a baby. We stood there for a long time, other people must have been wondering what the hell my deal was, but I couldn’t be arsed to care. Mum didn’t say anything, she just held me tight and made comforting shhhh noises and stroked my hair.

I finally calmed down enough for us to walk to baggage claim and get my suitcase. Mum held on to my hand the whole time. She didn’t really talk to me until we got into the car.

“Are you all right?” she said, turning toward me before she started up the engine.

I shook my head. “Not really. I can’t stop worrying about Sherlock, and I just wish Dad had come home with me.”

She reached out and brushed my hair off my forehead. “Me too, sweetheart.”

We drove home. The flats were so quiet. I wandered over to 221 and sat on their couch, just looking around. This flat is _them._ Dad’s medical books and his spy novels and Sherlock’s weird scrapbooks and reference books, and the stacks of papers and empty teacups. It was them in a way that other people wouldn’t see. Somebody who didn’t know them would look around and think it just chaotic and impersonal. They’d wonder why there were no family photographs or personal mementos. But there are. They just don’t look like it to other people. They don’t know that the weird umbrella-stand in the corner in the shape of a troll was a gag gift from Dad to Sherlock, or that the moose skull on the wall wears headphones because Dad complained that Sherlock’s bored violin-scratchings weren’t fit to be heard by any creature alive or dead. Somebody who didn’t know them wouldn’t know that the lockbox on the bookshelf is where Dad keeps all the medals and such that Sherlock has been given and doesn’t care about, or that Sherlock keeps his old broken pocket magnifier because it got broken while he was running to save Dad from getting stabbed to death by a diamond smuggler with a bad attitude.

I got up and wandered over into their bedroom. The bed wasn’t made. Dad usually keeps it neat in there, but he’d gotten up in a hurry and left quickly when I’d called him last Wednesday. Sherlock’s book on the nighttable on his side of the bed. His dressing gown flung over the back of a chair. Dad’s reading glasses that he’d forgotten to bring along. A glass of water, a bottle of paracetamol. There’s a framed photo on Dad’s side, a picture that someone had snapped of them after their wedding. We’d all gone out for brunch after the registrar, nothing fancy, but some quick-fingered person had managed to capture this image (I suspect it was Aunt Harry). It’s not one of those staged wedding photos, with big posed smiles (or tortured fake ones). The camera had caught them grinning at each other unselfconsciously, Sherlock’s arm round Dad’s shoulders and Dad’s round Sherlock’s back. It’s rare photographic evidence of Sherlock’s real smile, not the one he uses to make people think he’s normal. They are both holding drinks and you can see the brand-new rings on their fingers. Dad’s cheeks are flushed and Sherlock’s got eyes for nothing else but him.

They look happy.

I put the photo back down. I tried to picture my Dad without Sherlock and I couldn’t do it. I’d never known my Dad without Sherlock. I’d never been without him, either. I knew I was being dramatic, but I couldn’t help but worry that if he never came back, or if he died, that all of it would be just broken into a million pieces. Mum would be okay, she’d deal with it. Dad and me might not be so okay. I think even I would be okay eventually, but Dad? I don’t think so. I think that if you’re in love with a guy like Sherlock, you’re done for. There’s just no moving on from that. Who could possibly compare?

I escaped over to Zack’s that evening. I couldn’t take Mum fussing over me anymore. I swore up and down that I was okay and I ran across the street. He was waiting for me, and he caught me up in the biggest, tightest hug ever and it was just what I needed.

We went up to his room and he put on some Doctor Who because he knows that’s my comfort telly. I curled up into a little ball and he tucked me up close to his side and we watched the Doctor kick the stuffing out of some Silurians and I felt really safe, and loved. I can hardly believe it’s just a couple of weeks old, this thing with me and Zack, because it feels like we’ve done this a million times, watch telly cuddled up together, although we haven’t.

We took a break when he got peckish. Went downstairs, said hi to his mum and dad, both safely at home in their house where they belong, and rummaged up some sandwiches. Back upstairs.

I didn’t have much of an appetite. I nibbled at one sandwich while Zack talked about the concert he’d gone to in Camden while I was in New York. I listened to him talk and got out my scar cream from my pack. He’d seen me put on my scar cream a million times, I carry it just about everywhere. He watched me open up the tube, then put out his hand. “Can I?” he asked.

I was a little skittish about that. He’d _seen_ my scar loads of times, of course, but now he was going to touch it, if I let him. I guessed I ought to. Let him, that is. I’d be wanting him to touch more bits than that when the time came. I handed him the cream and put my leg in his lap. He pushed my trouser leg up and just looked at the scar for a moment. He touched it, carefully at first, then more massage-y.

“It doesn’t hurt, does it?” he asked.

“No. Sometimes it pulls if I move my leg a certain way. The scar tissue is stiffer than the rest of it. That doesn’t hurt, it’s just a bit weird. I’m used to it.”

He put some cream on his fingers and started rubbing it in. “Does this stuff help?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes I think it’s getting lighter, sometimes I think it never changes.” I shook my head. “Dad says time will tell. But it’s never going to just go away, no matter how much cream I put on it.”

Zack was looking closely. He’d probably never had the chance to get this good of a look at it. “There’s rows of tiny dots here,” he said, running his fingers down my shin. “Is that stitches?”

“No, it’s from pins. It wasn’t in a cast, they put pins through the skin to hold it together so it could heal where it got ripped.”

He shook his head. “Blimey. It must have been really bad.”

“Yeah, it was. It ripped halfway around,” I said, drawing a line around my calf from one side to the other. “Dad says I could have lost my foot, easy. But it healed. Good as new.” I swallowed hard. “Except this damn scar.”

Zack kept rubbing the cream in. His hands were really warm and soft. It felt nice. “It gives you character,” he said.

I know he meant well by saying that. I know he believes that. I know that my scar is not a point of detraction for him, or really for anybody who knows me. But right then, that was so not what I wanted to hear. “Bloody hell, I am _so sick_ of hearing that!” I burst out. Zack jumped a bit, his hand stilling on my leg. “Scars give character! Sure, character! A great gnarly mangled piece of flesh, that kind of character I don’t need.” I was choking up. “I hate it,” I said. “I fucking hate it, Zack. I hate that it’s always there, I hate that I can never not see it, that I can even _feel_ it there, I hate that people always _look_ at it and comment on it and want to hear the whole story of how I got it, because I hate thinking about it. It was the scariest thing that ever happened to me and I don’t remember most of it and I think I’m glad about that. It’s like when you have this thing on your body it becomes public property, like it’s perfectly fine for people to point and ask and generally act like I’m obligated to talk about it because I’ve allowed it to be seen!”

By the time I finished this tirade I was barely understandable through the crying. Zack looked stricken. “Gosh – Genie, I didn’t mean…”

“Just shut up about it!” I snapped. “I can’t, I just can’t.”

Bless Zack. He knew I wasn’t angry at him. He put my leg down and crawled up by my head and put his arms around me and I just cried and cried and cried and clung on to him, getting his jumper all soggy and he didn’t even care. He held me so tight and made shushy noises and rubbed my back and I think I like this having-a-boyfriend lark. I calmed down eventually but he didn’t let go. “Soooooo,” he began, cautiously. “Guessing that all that wasn’t really about your leg, huh?”

I sniffed. “No.”

“Sherlock?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I’d be out of my skull if I were you, Genie.”

“I am out of my skull. I’m just hiding it well.”

“Umm…yeah. Real well,” he said, casting a wry glance down at the big wet spot on his jumper.

I giggled. “Sorry I got all wobbly all over you.”

He shrugged. “What are boyfriends for if not to be cried on?”

He smiled down at me and I got this big warm jolt into my stomach, because he was just so sweet and so gorgeous and he was mine, all mine. “I hear they’re good for snogging,” I murmured.

“Yeah?” he said, a slow grin coming over his face. “Wanna find out?”

I didn’t answer, I just pulled his head down and snogged the life out of him. It was nice to forget everything and just get lost in it, how it felt to be close to him, getting off on his futon and getting my hands on his really fantastic arse. And if he got some personal knowledge of my chest then that’s neither here nor there.

That’s about as far as it went. For now, heh heh.

Yesterday Mum and I went up to Highgate to Nana and Grandpa’s house. “You heard from Dad?” I asked her on the drive out, trying to sound casual.

“He checked in this morning before you were up. He said to give you a kiss and he’d call you soon.”

“I guess he didn’t have any news.”

“No. But I’m sure it’s…”

“Mum, can we just not? I don’t want to talk about it.”

“All right.”

We were quiet the rest of the way there. One of the many awesome things about Mum. She knows when to not talk.

It was nice at Nana and Grandpa’s house. They were very huggy and talkative and were very, very obviously not asking us about Sherlock. Aunt Adele was there. She cornered me in the backyard where I’d gone to get away for a bit.

“You look exhausted, little bit.”

“I’m still a bit jet-lagged, I guess.”

“Are you sleeping?”

“As much as I can.”

She put her arm around me. “We’re all worried, Genie.”

“You hate him, though.”

She sighed. “I don’t. Not really. It’s a bit of a sock puppet theater we put on for everyone, in a way. I _wanted_ to hate him, because he’s such an unbelievable prat, and then I wanted to hate him because John left my sister for him. It’s weird, though. I don’t hate him at all for the second bit, just the first.”

I looked up at her and took the opportunity to get a long-wondered-about answer. “Did you ever fancy him?”

“Sherlock?” she said, her eyebrows going way high. “No.” I waited. “Okay, yes. A bit. Purely on aesthetics. It was one hundred percent mercenary on my part. I work in fashion, you know. Couldn’t help but think about the looks on my colleague’s faces if I walked in to an event with _that_ on my arm.”

“ _That?_ ”

“Told you it was mercenary. But no, I never seriously considered it. Anyhow, I knew what side of the bread he was buttered on.”

“Adele…” I debated for a moment, then plunged on ahead. “Do you know about Mum’s – other man?”

Her face went serious. “She told you about that?”

“Yeah. Not long ago. I was asking her how she’d been so easy about Dad and Sherlock.”

“It wasn’t easy. Don’t ever think it was easy. Just because she knew it could happen doesn’t mean she wanted it to. And it was a bleeding rough time all around, what with your accident and all.”

“But who’s this man?” I wasn’t letting her get me off topic.

She sighed. “Genie, it’s not my place to tell you about him.”

“You’ve met him, though?”

“No. But I’ve got a lot of feelings about him myself. I hate that my sister’s stuck in this purgatory with him. And that’s part of why I can’t hate your dad or Sherlock. Because she never thought she’d ever be happy or have a family or a life. Your dad gave her those things and she still has them. So Nathan didn’t ruin her life, like I was afraid he would. John helped her reclaim it, and even Sherlock too, in his way. It’s only because she knew that your dad loved Sherlock that she felt like she could even consider having a committed relationship with him. And I know how weird that sounds, but it’s the truth.”

I barely heard the last bits. “Nathan? His name’s Nathan?”

Adele’s face fell. “Oh, blast. She didn’t tell you his name?”

“No. But it’s not like that tells me much, is it?”

“I suppose not.” Nana called us in for dinner right then. “Well, let’s go get some grub, shall we? I’m starved.”

So now it’s Monday night. School was normal, in as much as I could even pay any attention to it whatsoever. Miss Dunedin called me in to her office after lunch.

“Genie, your mother’s notified me about your – troubles.”

“My troubles?”

“She said that your stepfather has gone missing.”

“He’s _not_ my stepfather!” I snapped. That somehow seemed like a really important distinction. “He adopted me, he’s my father.”

Miss Dunedin just nodded along. “Of course. I just wanted you to know that I’ve let your teachers know, so if you find yourself somewhat – distracted, we understand.”

“Thanks,” I said. I meant it. Say what you like about swotty schools like Francis Holland, they did a good job making you believe they cared. And they might just actually care, point of fact. “I’m trying to focus on schoolwork, but it’s hard.”

“Of course it is. If you want to take some time…”

“No. I want to be here. What would I do at home? Sit round and wallow?”

“I admire your attitude, Genie.” She smiled. “You may go.”

So I sleepwalked (sleptwalked? Is that a word?) through the day and came home and went right upstairs. Mum wasn’t home from work yet. I tried not to look at the door to 221, standing open like it usually was, but nobody home.

My phone rang later that night. “Dad!”

“Hi, Genie.” He sounded exhausted. “How are you, luv?”

“Oh, hang how I am, how are you? Any news?”

“No, I’m afraid not. Nothing. A profound lack of anything.”

“Dad, a lack of anything would be the presence of something. Double negative.”

Dad laughed, the sort that sounded like it might turn into crying at any moment. “Christ, Genie. You sound like him.”

“I don’t even know if I’m right. It just sounded good.”

“God, I miss you.”

“I miss you too, Dad,” I said, choking up for about the sixth time that day. “Can’t you come home? Please?”

“I can’t. Not yet, luv. I can’t give up on him. He wouldn’t give up on me, not ever.” He was choking up, too.

“I know. It’s okay. I want you to find him, really bad, but I also want you to come home, really bad, and I know I can’t have both and it’s driving me round the bend.”

“I don’t even know if I’m helping,” Dad said. “There’s the New York police and then there’s this team that I assume is Mycroft’s people, and they’re sort of working together but I’m not a member of either team. I’ve got my own network of sources. Twenty years working with him, I’ve acquired a few skills. But everything’s over there, at home, but he disappeared from here – I don’t even know where I’d be better off. I just keep thinking that if Mycroft’s team is still here, that this is where I need to be.”

“I think I’d go with that, too.”

“How are you, sweetheart? How was your weekend?”

“All right. We went up to Nana and Grandpa’s yesterday. I hung out with Zack some.”

“Everything going all right there?”

“Yeah. It’s rather brilliant, actually,” I said, remembering that explosion of belly-warmth I’d felt with him. “Does it always feel like this?”

“Does what?”

“I dunno. Being in love.”

“You think that’s where you are with this, huh?” he said, sounding like he was picking his words carefully.

“How do I know? Maybe it gets better. Or worse.”

“It gets better _and_ worse, luv,” Dad said. I could hear his smile.

We both got quiet. “Find him, Dad,” I finally said.

“I will, Genie. I promise.”

We said our goodnights and hung up. I should have told him not to make me a promise he might not be able to keep.

* * *


	21. 13 December

**The Blog of Eugenia H. Watson, Well-Mannered Frivolity**

 _13 December_

I’m not much of a jewelry girl. I wear plain little silver hoops in my ears just about every day. I don’t wear the sorts of clothes that lend themselves to matching bling. But I have two pieces of jewelry that are important to me, and that I never take off.

The first is my ring. It was a gift from my mother on my sixteenth birthday. It’s my great-great-great-great-great-grandmother’s wedding ring, from when she was married in Ireland in 1864. It’s a slender platinum band with small diamonds, really quite pretty. It’s been passed down to her female descendants on their sixteenth birthdays. Mum had it before me. My cousin Lily never had it because she’s the daughter of a son. Since Adele doesn’t have children, it looks like I’m going to have the ring until I have a daughter myself.

The second is my necklace. It’s a silver chain with a tiny charm on it, a chess queen. I’ve had it since I was ten years old, when it was given to me on a very important occasion.

I had a new dress that day, I remember. It was blue and I thought it was so grown-up looking. It didn’t have ruffles or bows or anything, not that I’d ever tolerated frilly little-girl dresses in the first place, but this one was like a dress my Mummy would wear, and Mummy had the best clothes. It had a straight skirt and a top with skinny straps and a little white sweater with beads on. There were lots of people at the house when we were all getting ready to leave. Besides Mummy and Daddy and Sherlock, Aunt Harry and Aunt Clara were there, and Mr. Lestrade and his wife, and a tall man who I’d been told was Sherlock’s brother. He didn’t look friendly, so I kept my distance. Daddy was wearing a very nice three-piece suit that I’d never seen before and I thought he looked so handsome. Sherlock was wearing a tie. He never wore ties. It was dark purple and it exactly matched the shirt he was wearing. I knew that was Dad’s favorite color on him, and it looked really good. I thought he looked like a movie star.

We got in cars and went to the court register. Harry and Clara came with me and Mum; Dad and Sherlock had a special car just for them. I remember that this irritated me. “Why can’t they just ride with us?” I said. “They always ride with us!”

“It’s a special day for them,” Mum said. “They might like to be alone together.”

“I don’t see why,” I said, all huffy. Mum and Aunt Harry exchanged amused looks with each other. I’d been to weddings before, but Mum had warned me that this one wouldn’t be like the others. No aisles, no music, no flower girls, no big white dresses. Me and Mum had giggled together over the thought of Dad or Sherlock in a big white dress.

We got to the registrar’s office and we all just sort of gathered around. Dad and Sherlock stood in front of the registrar. They didn’t even hold hands or anything, which I thought was stupid. He had them repeat some words, then asked if they had rings. Mum stepped forward and got out the ring box. She handed one to Dad, and kissed his cheek, then handed the other one to Sherlock, and kissed him, too. Then she came and stood behind me and put her hands on my shoulders. Dad and Sherlock put the rings on each other’s fingers. Dad was all shiny-eyed and glowy. Sherlock acted like he didn’t care but I know he did, because his voice got a little breaky when he put the ring on Dad’s finger and told him that with this ring he thee wed, or whatever the words are. I was mostly standing there and fixating on the fact that there’d probably be yucky kissing soon.

The registrar started saying something else, but then Sherlock held up one hand. “Just a moment, please. I have another presentation to make.” Everyone just sort of stared at him, even Dad. Looked like Sherlock was making an unscheduled alteration to the ceremony. He reached into his pocket and took out a little box, then he stepped over and stood in front of me. “I’ve got something for you, Genie,” he said, then he knelt down so he wasn’t towering over me. He opened up the box and there was the little chess queen charm necklace. “Your dad shouldn’t be the only one getting new sparkly bits today, don’t you think?”

“That’s for me?” I said.

“Yes.” He took it out of its little box. “I’m sure everyone here feels bad for you, stuck with me for a stepfather. But I intend to do my best to be at least an adequate one.” He held up the necklace. “May I?”

I nodded, and he reached up and fastened it around my neck. I was just a kid, but I got what he was trying to do. Sherlock was telling me that while he was marrying my dad that day, in a way he was marrying me, too. I didn’t really know how to tell him that I thought he would be a brilliant stepfather and that I was thrilled that he would be officially family now, so I just hugged him. He hugged me back. I looked up at Dad, who was watching us with this expression on his face like he was having way too many feelings and they might just explode from inside him in a big gloppy mess. “Thanks,” I said to Sherlock, when I let him go. He stood up and went back to stand by Dad. Dad took his hands and hung on tight, that too-many-feelings look still on his face.

The registar told them they were married and said they could kiss if they wanted to. I cringed, but I didn’t look away. Sherlock started for the polite-company kiss but Dad wasn’t having it. He grabbed his face and kissed the hell out of him. Everyone clapped.

I hardly ever take my necklace off. Once so I could replace the chain for a longer, sturdier one. A few times when I was afraid it might get torn off or damaged. But mostly, there it is.

Today, Sherlock has been missing for one week. I am terrified. I feel sick. I can’t sleep. I’ve got a red mark around my neck because I keep pulling and fidgeting with my necklace. Last night I actually snuck into Mum’s room and got into bed with her. I haven’t done that since I was eleven. She hugged me and I just cried myself to sleep. I’m so bloody sick of crying. I’m disappointing myself. I ought to be strong and tough and keeping of a stiff upper lip. I’m a Watson, goddammit. I’m a Watson and a Pepperidge and a Holmes, and my parentage is so damned full of badassitude that it ought to be coming out my ears. This isn’t me, this weepy scared girl who can’t even sleep alone. I don’t know who this is. I don’t like her, not at all. I want her to go far away and never come back.

I said this to Mum this morning at breakfast. We went out on one of our brekkie outings, to my favorite café with the best kippers ever. “You’re being far too hard on yourself, Genie,” she said. “What do you think people are supposed to do when someone they love is missing? Go about their lives like normal?”

“Well, yes! Or at least put up a front that they are.”

“You’re doing that. You’re going to school and going about your life. Do you cry there?”

“Um, no.”

“There, you see? You can cry and be scared at home, that’s what home is for. Nobody would judge you for being upset.”

I sighed. “He would.”

“Who?”

“Sherlock. He’d say I was being hysterical and melodramatic.”

“He most certainly would not.” I gave Mum a look. “Well, he wouldn’t say it out loud, anyway. Besides, don’t you know that the rules Sherlock applies to the rest of the world don’t apply to you?”

“They don’t?”

“Oh, no. You and John, you’re both exempt. You have to be. He’s made you part of himself, and so he can’t judge you so harshly.”

I pondered this. It was sort of true. Dad and I got passes for things that would earn most people the most severe ridicule. Sherlock had seen me sobbing at a sappy movie on the telly, hysterical with rage over the stupidity of people in general, and despondent over some celebrity I had a crush on. He’d never made fun of me. He’d given me The Eyebrow and not-so-subtly encouraged me to expend my energy more effectively, but there was a difference. He never made me feel silly or stupid.

I still _felt_ still and stupid, though.

I went to Leonid’s after school today. It was my first time over since my return.

It occurs to me that I haven’t talked much about Leonid in these blogs. Which is a bit odd seeing as aside from my parents and teachers, I spend more time with him than just about anyone else in the world, and have since I was five years old. Some people would go into the “practically another parent” place with that, but Leonid isn’t that way. He is not remotely a parent figure to me.

Leonid’s father was some rich Russian guy. They moved here when Leonid was just a kid and brought the whole Russian chess obsession with them. He’s been playing since he was three. He inherited his family’s house in London but there was no money left by the time they died, so the house is something of a mausoleum. He never married or had any children; I don’t know why, he’s quite handsome, but he isn’t exactly approachable. I have no idea how old he is. He could be thirty or he could be fifty. He doesn’t look old, but sometimes he talks about things that he seems way too young to remember.

Leonid uses a wheelchair sometimes; he was born without legs. I asked him once if it was because of Chernobyl and he gave me this look like I’d just asked him if he’d ever had sex with a goat. He isn’t super cuddly, that’s for sure. He has other students, all of them extremely highly ranked. I’m the youngest, by far. He constantly has people clamoring to study with him. It’s a bit odd because Leonid himself has never competed. He has no Elo rating, he isn’t an IM like most of the professional chess masters are. He only plays in informal matches at clubs, whereupon he trounces the international champions and sends them home crying to their mummies. Over the years he acquired this reputation for shaping the minds of other chess players. He’s got a spooky ability to look inside your game and see how you’re conceptualizing it, and then helping you take it apart from the inside out and rebuild it. People started to consult him, and his consultations meant wins and improvements. And there you have it.

I brought in his post like I always do. “Leonid!” I yelled. I have a key, so I can more or less come and go as I please. His house is four stories, with an elevator for his chair, but he spends most of his time in the first-floor salon.

“Genie! Get up here!” People expect him to have a Russian accent. Probably because his last name is Mitrofanov. But he doesn’t, he just sounds British, if a bit public-school.

“Yeah, all right, keep your shirt on.” I ran up the stairs. He was sitting on the floor at the low chess table. It’s long and rectangular and had six boards set up on it, cushions surrounding it. It’s built to suit his low height when he’s out of his chair, which he tries to be as much as possible. I spend a lot of time playing chess while sitting yoga-style on the floor. His computer was open at his side.

“I’m going over the streams of your match against Patterson. What the blazes is this?” he said, clicking ‘play’ and showing me some move I’d made that he apparently deemed unacceptable.

“Nice to see you too, Leo.”

“Yes, whatever,” he said, with a dismissive hand-wave.

“Hey, fifth place! Gosh, Genie, what a fantastic performance! Well higher than we predicted!”

“My only prediction for you is that you…”

“…do better than we predict, yeah, I know,” I finished for him. I sat down opposite the board where he’d been playing out my matches on his own.

“This is a mistake you might have made four years ago,” he said, moving the corresponding piece on the board.

“Yeah, well, that was a bad day.”

He paused the video and turned to face me. “Genie, if you can only play well on days when the planets are aligned and all is right with the world, then you’re not playing chess.”

“Sherlock had just gone _missing,_ and oh by the way, he still is!”

“I’m aware of that. I hope he returns safely and soon. But chess is a game of mental mastery, and that includes mastery of one’s own emotions.”

I sighed. “I know. That’s why I like it.” _That’s why I need it,_ I thought but didn’t say. But he knew. There isn’t much that Leonid doesn’t know about me where chess is concerned.

“Then let’s get to work, shall we?” he said. He started resetting the board. “We’ll start at the eighth move of your match against Riskov. I want to see at least four different endgames.”

I watched him move the pieces quickly. His memory for board positions is uncanny. I wanted to ask him if I’d done well in the tournament. I wanted to ask him if he was proud of me, if he’d ever been proud of me.

But I didn’t. Because those things are irrelevant to Leonid. And that’s a big part of what I need from him.


	22. 16 December

**The Blog of Eugenia H. Watson, Teenage Wasteland**

 _16 December_

Oh, my giddy aunt. Oh, crumbs. Kind of a lot has happened.

I am ecstatic and I am still heartbroken. Ecstatic because Dad is home. Still heartbroken because Sherlock is no closer to being home, and Dad is sort of a zombie.

Let me back up a minute.

Yesterday when I came home from school, the flat seemed deserted, but I’d seen Mum’s car parked in her space and her coat was on its peg, so I knew she was home. I looked around 219 but didn’t see her. As had become my habit, I wandered over to 221.

Mum was there, on the couch, with Dad. I almost shouted with glee at seeing him, but then I really _saw_ him. He was sitting with his head on Mum’s shoulder, his shoulders hunched. She had her arms around him, one hand on the side of his head to keep it tucked up into her neck. His face looked a bit blank, like he wasn’t sure where he was or what was going on.

He looked lost.

“Dad?” I said, unable to hold back any longer.

He straightened up and looked at me; his face lit up when he saw me. He jumped up and held his arms out. I walked right into them and hugged the stuffing out of him. “Daddy! Are you home to stay?” _Oh please oh please oh please._

“Yes, it looks that way,” he said, hugging me so tight.

“I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too, Genie.” He pulled back and kissed my cheek.

“What’s going on? Why are you home? Do you know where Sherlock is?”

He went sober and led me back to the couch. I sat down between him and Mum. Dad kept a hold of my hand. “I’m afraid not, luv. I’ve got nothing. A solid week’s work and nothing,” he repeated, his jaw clenching.

“What made you come home, then?” I asked.

Dad sighed. “Your uncle Mycroft came to me and told me that he didn’t know who had Sherlock. He’d used up every resource he had and called in every marker, and he couldn’t find out. That could only mean one thing. Whoever has him, they’re over Mycroft’s head.”

My jaw dropped. “I didn’t think _anything_ was over Mycroft’s head!”

“Nor did I. Nor, judging by his chagrin, did he. But there’s been absolutely no chatter about Sherlock’s disappearance. No trace, no sign of anything. It’s as if they teleported him to another dimension. I don’t know what to think or do. Mycroft told me to come home, so I did.” His expression went sad. “Whatever’s become of him, I can’t help him. Mycroft can’t help him.” He put one hand over his eyes.

I put my arm around his shoulders. “It’s gonna be okay, Dad.”

“I hope you’re right, sweetheart.”

Then he put on a happy face and asked me about my week and wanted to hear about Zack and Leonid and whatever else I’d been doing since I came home. He took me and Mum out for dinner, during which we made torturous avoidance conversation, and when we got home I went up to my room to IM with Zack for awhile.

I went downstairs around ten o’clock to get some tea. Mum was watching telly. “Where’s Dad?” I said, trying to sound casual, and like I wasn’t obsessively making sure that he was still here.

“He’s in 221,” she said, glancing toward the door into 221. That surprised me a bit. I’d have thought he’d want to hang out here, where we are, instead of in his own flat, where there’s no one.

I made another cup of tea and went over to find him. He wasn’t in the lounge. I found him in their bedroom. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, which I noticed he had neatly re-made, that post-wedding photo in his hands, staring down at it with this desolate expression on his face. “Tea, Dad?” I said, hoping I wasn’t disturbing him too much.

He looked up with a weary smile. “Ta, luv,” he said. He took the tea, but then put it down without drinking any. I sat on the bed by his side, tucking my legs up. He wanted to talk, I could tell, so I just stayed quiet until he was ready. “I’ve lost count of the number of people who’ve asked me how I can stay with him, why I stay with him. Even your mother. She doesn’t ask, but sometimes after he’s done or said something particularly appalling she’ll shoot me this look of ‘Really, John? Really?’” He chuckled a bit.

“I’ve seen that look.”

“I’m sure you have. The worst part is that sometimes I ask myself the same question. He isn’t an easy man to live with. Or an easy man to love. You know as well as I do that he isn’t terribly vocal about his feelings.”

“No, he isn’t.” I could count on the fingers of one hand how many times Sherlock had out-and-out told me he loved me.

“And he never makes his own tea, he doesn’t respect my space or anything of mine, he’s rude and abrasive and he’s a bloody slob. I spend half my life cleaning up after him and pushing food and sleep on him so he doesn’t collapse from exhaustion.” Dad sighed. “And what do I get in return? His undying devotion? You’d have to look hard to see it. He doesn’t shower me with affection or write me love letters or buy me gifts. But what people don’t get is that really, he doesn’t have to.” He thought for a moment. “He can always tell when my shoulder’s bothering me. I never have to mention it, he sees it in how I move. He’ll sit me on this bed and get up behind me, and he’ll massage my shoulder until it isn’t stiff anymore. He’s rather good at that, with those hands of his.” Dad smiled a little. “The first time he did it, I kept waiting for him to get bored, or say ‘are you better yet?’ and escape, but he didn’t. He kept at it until he could feel that I was loose and relaxed again. He’ll do it for an hour if he has to. And the next time I had a stiff shoulder, and he started to work on it, I saw that he’d gone out and gotten special oil for it, the sort that warms up. It felt brilliant.” He met my eyes. “He might not say the words constantly, but he shows me every day that he loves me. He might not fix his own tea or pick up his socks but he knows that I don’t care about those things, not really. The things I really care about are the things he pays attention to.”

“Dad,” I said, helpless to say much more. I leaned my head on his shoulder.

I felt him breathing, shuddery breaths that were drawn too deeply. “He’s my whole world,” he said. My heart broke for him a little. A stricken look crossed his face and he looked at me, like he’d just remembered who he was talking to. “I mean – not that he’s the only – blast. Not that you’re not…”

“It’s all right, Dad. I know what you mean.”

He shook his head, still staring at the photo. “I don’t know what to do, Genie.”

“I think maybe – there’s nothing you _can_ do, Dad.”

He looked at me again, another agonized frown crossing his face. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be talking to you like this. You need me to be strong and brave and have myself together.”

“Nah, it’s all good. I’m terrified, you’re terrified, we can be terrified together.” I rested my cheek on his shoulder and touched the image of Sherlock’s face in the photo with one finger. “Nobody loves him like we do.”

So I sat there with Dad for awhile. We didn’t say much more. My heart was a big clenchy mass in my chest with fear for Sherlock, so I can’t imagine how Dad must have been feeling. I thought of something like this happening to Zack and it made me feel sort of dizzy and sick, and I’d only been Zack’s girlfriend for a few weeks. Dad and Sherlock had been together for nine years, or twenty, depending on where you start counting.

I went to bed not long after and for the first time since my return, I didn’t have any nightmares about dead fathers.

This morning I was the first one up. I felt a bit wrecked, honestly. I staggered downstairs with but one thought in my head: tea. I put the kettle on when I heard shuffling and movement from Mum’s room. I poked my head into the hallway but whatever I was going to say dried up in my throat when I saw – Dad.

Coming out of Mum’s room. Still half asleep. In his pajamas.

He saw me and smiled. “Morning, luv.”

I was aghast. No. No fucking way did he – I couldn’t even formulate the thought. “Dad!”

“What?” he said, frowning. All I could do was cut my eyes back to Mum’s door and then to him again. His whole face went slack with shock when he realized what I was thinking. “Oh, Genie, no! God, no. This isn’t – I didn’t – bleeding Christ,” he muttered. He took me by the arm and led me back to the kitchen and sat me down. “After you went to bed last night, I had a bit of a rough go, I’m afraid. I wanted to sleep but I couldn’t face sleeping in that bed alone. Not without him. I just – I can’t explain it, I was bloody knackered and a bit barmy. Your Mum heard me banging about and came to the rescue. We talked for a long time. I slept in her room. On top of the covers. Just for the company. I swear, sweetheart. You can ask her yourself. She’s just – I know her so well, it was comforting to be there with her.”

I knew he was telling the truth. Not just because it was such an easily verified story, but because he’s no good at lying in the first place. If I’d given it much thought I would probably have decided on my own that there was no way Dad had just up and slept with Mum out of the blue. Even if he’d wanted to for some unfathomable reason, she wouldn’t have let him. “All right, Dad.”

“I couldn’t – do that,” Dad went on. “Not now, not ever. God, the thought…” He trailed off. “It doesn’t have any appeal for me. The physical part. Not anymore.”

“I know. I’m sorry, it’s none of my business.”

“It is, in a way. It’s your family, too.”

I stared at my hands on the table. “I just want you and Sherlock to be together forever.” I sniffed. “That sounds like something a little kid would say, like a fairytale ending.”

He reached out and took my hands. “You’re not so far off from being a kid, you know.”

“I know. It comes out in weird ways, when I’m stressed or scared – it’s like I want to be grownup but when it comes down to it I still want to hide behind your legs or cling to Mum’s skirt. Then later I feel stupid about it and like I shouldn’t need that anymore.”

“Can I tell you a secret?”

“Sure,” I said, a little nervous about what it might be.

“My parents have been dead since before you were born, and I still feel like that sometimes.” He sighed. “Like now, for example.” He shook his head, swallowing hard. “I miss him so much it hurts,” he said.

“Me too,” I said, going all choky again. I swiped at my eyes. “If you sleep in Mum’s room again, can I join in?”

He smiled. “Sure.”

Mum came in then and kissed both of us good morning, and Dad made breakfast and we tried to have a normal day. It didn’t work very well. Dad wandered around like he’d forgotten something, trying to concentrate on task after task and failing. I tried to study my games and that was a major waste of time. Zack called and wanted to take me – oh damn, I can’t even remember now where he wanted to take me. Shows you how much attention I was paying. I begged off. I ended up curled in a corner of the couch watching an EastEnders marathon and thinking how much shit I would have gotten from Sherlock if he knew. Then I couldn’t stop watching, like if I watched enough crap telly, he’d have to come back just so he could admonish me and give me The Eyebrow.

We all pottered about like very slow-moving pinballs, bouncing off the walls and each other in a sedate, depressed manner. We ate sandwiches and crisps when we felt hungry and looked at each other with “well, what now?” looks on our faces.

Mum came and sat next to me around six that night, kicking her legs up on the couch and jamming her toes against my calves. “I think I’ll take your dad to the cinema tonight,” she said. “Want to come?”

“No.” I couldn’t think of anything I’d rather do less. “He’s not going to want to go, either.”

“I know. I think he ought to get out of the house. Distraction, you know.”

“You think you can distract him from the fact that his husband has been missing for ten days?”

“I’ve got to do _something!_ ” she exclaimed, suddenly vehement. “I can’t just roam around and wait for things to happen. If we can’t help Sherlock or find him ourselves, then we have to – I know it sounds impossible, but we have to go on with our lives.”

“ _Go on with our lives?_ ” I said, incredulous. “Like we’ve just accepted that he’s dead and never coming back?”

“No! God, no. Never that. But if we can’t do anything…”

“Is _anybody_ doing anything? Is anybody looking for him?”

“I’m sure your uncle…”

“Has already said that he can’t do anything! So basically that’s what we’re doing, is waiting for him to come back on his own, or to get the news that he never will.”

Mum sighed. “We can’t just sit around and stare at each other. Your dad’s got to go back to work, you’ve got school, I’ve got work. The world doesn’t stop turning.”

“It should. Doesn’t it feel like it should?”

“Yes. But it won’t.” She leaned over and stroked my hair. I closed my eyes and let her pet me like a cat. It felt comforting and nice and like a big fat lie. “Sweetheart. I miss him, too.”

“Not like me and Dad do. You don’t love him like we do.”

“Don’t I?”

“How can you? He’s Dad’s husband, he’s my father, what is he to you?”

Mum sighed. “I don’t know. The people who made up those family-relationships words didn’t envision this scenario, I guess. All I know is that after you and your father, he’s the closest person in the world to me. More so even than my own family. He and I have an oddball sort of bond that comes from loving the same man, a kind of trench camaraderie, like we’ve survived a war together and come out alive after the armistice.” She was still carding her fingers through my hair. I felt like purring and curling into a ball in her lap. “I can only imagine what your father is going through. All I can do is try and help him deal with it, and you too.”

I sniffed. “I’m glad you’re here, Mum.”

“Me too.”

I laid there while she played with my hair for awhile longer, until the episode of EastEnders was over. “I’m going up to my room,” I said. “I think getting Dad out of the house would be a good idea, if you can manage it.”

Around seven, Dad knocked on my door and poked his head in. “Mum and I are going out. Sure you don’t want to come?”

I managed a smile. “Thanks, but no.”

He came over and kissed my forehead. “Stay in the house, all right?”

“Does Mycroft…”

“There are men outside, yes. Safe as houses.”

“Okay.”

He smiled at me, a pale shadow of his usual smile, and left. I heard the door close behind them.

Zack wasn’t at his computer. Metsy was out with some of our other girlfriends. They’d asked me along but I declined. My friends were being surprisingly sensitive about my desire to be left the fuck alone while not forgotten. I curled up on my bed with a book, my laptop open nearby.

About an hour after Mum and Dad left, my computer chimed. It was a request to open a video chat. The username was CRUMPET221.

I sat there staring at it, not breathing. That could be nobody but Sherlock.

I nearly broke a finger getting to the controls. I accepted the video chat request and the screen popped up. I gasped, an undignified squawk escaping me.

There, on the screen, was Sherlock.

He wasn’t looking into the webcam. The camera was aimed at his right ear, so I was seeing him in near-profile. He was concentrating on whatever he was looking at, and typing. He was sitting in a utilitarian-looking room, the background dim. I could see some boxes and some desks but no other people. He didn’t look hurt or ill. He was wearing some sort of fatigues, like military fatigues, but I couldn’t see any insignia.

He looked like he was totally unaware of the fact that he was online with me.

In what I think was a cracking good example of keeping my head together, I clicked the button to record the session. Dad would want to see this and so would Mycroft.

“Sherlock?” I said, once my voice box unlocked. “Sherlock! Can you hear me?”

He didn’t move or change facial expressions, but a response appeared in the text-input line below the image.

 _I can hear you, but I can’t see you._

He lifted his hand to his ear, like he was casually tucking a strand of hair back, but what he was really doing was showing me the tiny earpiece he was wearing.

 _I don’t have long. This signal is piggybacked and I can’t risk its detection. I can’t be seen to be interacting with you._

I had too many questions. My heart was pounding. “Are you all right? Where are you? Did they hurt you? Who has you? Are you coming home soon?”

 _I can’t tell you much. I’m in no immediate danger. I have not been mistreated. These people need me to assist with certain tasks. I don’t know how long it will take. I can’t give away my location right now. Is John there?_

“He went out with Mum. He just came back from New York yesterday.”

 _What was he doing there all that time?_

“Looking for you! He’s half out of his mind, and so am I!”

 _I’m sorry, Genie. This was what I hoped to avoid._

“You knew they were following you, didn’t you? You knew and you didn’t say anything! You just walked right out and let them take you!” My anger, suppressed beneath worry for his safety, was bubbling up now that I could see him.

 _I had no choice. That isn’t important now._

“Sherlock, it’ll be Christmas soon. Please, please, come home,” I said. I was starting to cry.

 _I’d like nothing more. I’m afraid it’s not up to me. I have to go._

“No! No, don’t go!”

His jaw on the screen was tightening just a little. _Tell Mycroft it’s the old joke._

“The old – what?”

Sherlock’s left hand lifted up briefly, like he had to scratch his neck, and made a couple of quick, nearly-indistinguishable gestures. Then, for one agonizing moment, he cut his eyes over to the webcam so it was as if he was looking right at me.

 _I miss you, crumpet._

Then the video feed cut out, and the chat closed.

“No!” I cried. But that was it. He was gone. Again.

I made sure the chat had recorded. I got out my phone and sent an urgent text to Dad. _Come home right now. Had message from Sherlock._

Then I flopped back onto my bed and had a nice big sobbing fit.

Mum and Dad got home fifteen minutes later. They must have really hustled. Dad burst into my room, his eyes wild. “A message? What sort of message?”

I just queued up the chat and let them watch it. The first time Sherlock’s face appeared on screen, Dad made a bit of a strangly noise in his throat, reached out and touched the image, like he could touch the man himself through the screen. He listened to my recorded voice asking questions and read Sherlock’s replies.

When it came to the end of the chat and Sherlock made those quick gestures up by his face, Dad groaned and rubbed his hand over his eyes. “What’s that mean? Is that something?” I asked.

He nodded. “It’s sign language again. Fingerspelling.” His throat worked. “He’s saying ‘I love you.’ To me.”

I frowned. “How are you getting that?” I knew the sign language for “I love you” and that wasn’t what Sherlock was spelling.

He shook his head. “It’s one of our little codes. It doesn’t matter now. I have to call Mycroft.” His phone rang in his hand before he could even dial. “Oh. That’s him calling now. Hello? Yes, she just – oh, okay. Yeah, we’ll be here.” He hung up. “He already knew. Don’t know why I’m surprised.” He looked down at me, his eyes damp. “He’s okay,” he whispered.

I nodded. “Yeah.” We hugged tight, taking deep breaths for what felt like the first time. “But who’s got him? When’s he coming home?”

“I don’t know. There’s some kind of message for Mycroft, the old joke.”

“Do you know what that means?”

“No. Hopefully that’ll be helpful. He obviously took a risk sending out that chat signal.”

“Why did he send it to me?”

“Because he knew you were the most likely person to be at your computer at this time of day. He probably had a short window to work with and he had to play the odds.” He squeezed me tight again. “For now, he isn’t hurt, he’s okay. I’m just glad to know that much.”

“Me, too.”

We all three huddled up on my bed, the laptop on Dad’s knees, and watched the video about a dozen more times. It almost felt like we were a whole family again, all four of us there together. God, I can’t wait until it’s like that again, for real.


	23. 17 December

**The Blog of Eugenia H. Watson, Speaker for the Dead**

 _17 December_

Mycroft came over this morning. For once, I was glad to see him. I even hugged him. He didn’t really know what to do about that, like, at all. He sort of patted my shoulder and said “There, there,” as if that would make it all better.

We’d emailed him the video of my chat with Sherlock the night before, so he’d have had plenty of time to study it. I was just praying that he could find a clue or a hint or something, anything, that would let him charge in with the Light Brigade and rescue Sherlock. I didn’t care if it bruised Sherlock’s ego to get rescued by his brother. I didn’t care if Mycroft had to carry him out over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. I just wanted him home. Period.

Mycroft and Dad exchanged a tense sort of look as he came into the lounge. We all sat around the dining-room table. This didn’t feel like the prelude to an announcement of “Gosh, we know just where Sherlock is and the special ops team is extracting him right now, he’ll be home in time for tea.” I grasped Mum’s hand on the table top.

“I’ve had my technical staff analyze the chat session,” Mycroft began, without preamble. “Nothing could be gleaned regarding Sherlock’s whereabouts. But the content of his remarks may be more useful.”

“What did he mean, the old joke?” Dad asked.

Mycroft pursed his lips. “When we were boys, Sherlock and I had a running joke about how we’d take over the world if we were supervillains. We’d try to one-up each other with grander, more ridiculous schemes. As we got older, death rays and hollowing out the moon grew tiresome, so our schemes became more realistic. We began discussing how men throughout history have actually gone about taking over the world, which led to a recurring joke about secret societies.”

“Like the Freemasons or something?” Mum said.

“Not exactly.”

“Like the Illuminati,” I said.

“Closer.”

“The Illuminati don’t exist,” Dad said.

“No, they do not. Strictly the purview of paranoid conspiracy theorists. In my years in my position, I’ve had occasion to investigate the existence of global shadow government and have never found any sign of it. I’m now forced to wonder if the lack of evidence isn’t simply what one would expect to find. Such an organization is surely capable of covering its tracks.”

Dad held up a hand. “Mycroft, you’re not suggesting that the Illuminati have Sherlock.”

“No. As I said, they don’t exist. But Sherlock’s message to me – that it’s our old joke – seems to indicate that something like them may, in fact, exist. A global organization beyond the reach of governmental purview. We can only speculate about the nature of such an organization, and why they’d need Sherlock’s help, but if this is, in fact, the case, I’m afraid it isn’t good news.”

“How?” I asked.

“Such an organization is surely capable of securing their own networks. Sherlock is a competent hacker but he’d never be able to sneak a signal out to contact you, Genie. Not unless he was allowed to do so. I suspect that his hosts permitted him to reach out to his family.”

“Oh, God,” Dad said, sounding desolate.

“What?” I said. “Isn’t that good news? That they’re letting him talk to us?”

“No,” Dad said. “They’d never let him. Not unless they had no intention of ever allowing him to return home.”

“Oh,” I said, in a very small voice. Mum squeezed my hand. “Then we have to get him out!”

Mycroft shook his head. “I can’t even begin to conceive of how such a thing would be accomplished.”

“I am not giving up,” Dad said, his voice gone all steely. “I refuse to sit here and wait while he’s kept locked up somewhere! I will get him back if it’s the last thing I do!”

“And if you make yourself a nuisance, what then, John?” Mycroft said, his tone going sharper than I’d ever heard it. “Do you imagine they’d hesitate to eliminate you if you became too much trouble? You have responsibilities here. You have a daughter who needs you. Do you think Sherlock would wish you to place yourself in danger?”

I was shaking all over. Mum shot Mycroft an annoyed look. “Can we tone down the death talk, please?” she said.

“Shall I sugarcoat it for you?” Mycroft said. “If Eugenia cannot bear to hear the truth, then she should excuse herself.”

“No!” I said. “I need to hear it. Dad, please – don’t do anything that’ll make them come after you, too. Please.”

He looked at me, that steely look still on his face, but when he saw my expression he softened a bit. He took my other hand. “All right, luv. It’s all right.”

“Can’t you do anything, Uncle Mycroft?” I said. Yeah, I’m not above playing on someone’s heartstrings to bend them to my will. Too bad I was too upset to really bring out the puppy-dog eyes.

He didn’t appear moved by my display of family sentiment. “I love my brother, Genie, despite what he might believe. This is over my head, much as it pains me to say it. I cannot risk his safety by making trouble for his hosts. If I – or anyone else – makes it too inconvenient for them to keep him, they may simply decide to dispose of him.” Dad made a choked noise and smothered it with his hand. “I am laying my cards on the table, John. Your devotion to my brother is admirable, but in this case, it could get him killed.”

“So what do we _do?_ ” Dad asked.

Mycroft sighed. “The only thing we can do. Trust Sherlock to finagle his way out of this situation. If anyone can, he can. We cannot help him, and if we try, we may never see him again.”

Dad got up and turned away so fast that he knocked his chair over. He took a couple of steps away and crossed his arms over his chest, his head dropping down. Mum watched his back.

“John. I will have your word on this.” Mycroft sounded pretty damned serious.

“My word,” Dad said, his back still to us. “You want my word that I will do nothing while my husband is held captive by God knows who, being made to do God knows what. You want my word that I will not try to help him, that I won’t move heaven and earth to get him back, that I will sit here and hope for the best and wait for him to come home, or to be told that he’s dead and I will never see him again?”

Mycroft took a breath. “Yes.”

“You son of a bitch, Mycroft.”

Mycroft just nodded. “It can’t be helped.”

“Get out.”

I was clutching both of Mum’s hands by this time. We watched as Mycroft calmly got to his feet, nodded to us, and let himself out. Dad just stood there. I could see him shaking, every muscle clenched. I started to get to my feet. “Dad…” I began.

“Genie,” he said, cutting me off. “Please. I love you, but I need you to not talk to me right now, all right?”

I sat back down. I felt very small and scared. “Okay.”

“John, you can’t…”

He didn’t let Mum finish. He turned and stalked over to 221, slamming the door behind him. I met Mum’s eyes.

“He’s just upset,” she said, smiling, but her eyes were worried. “We ought to leave him be for awhile.”

“I’m upset, too! Can’t we be upset together?”

“I think he needs to be alone for a little while. C’mon. Let’s go to Nana and Grandpa’s. They said we could come over today.”

I nodded, miserable. “Okay.”

I got my bag and Mum got her coat and we set off. While she was in her room, I snuck over to the door of 221 and put my ear to it, to see if I could her Dad.

I could. And then I wished I couldn’t. Because what I heard was my Dad crying. It sounded like he was trying to be quiet about it, but he couldn’t help himself. I leaned up against the door with my palms pressed flat to it, a lump in my throat. I just wanted to go through and cuddle him and tell him everything would be okay, but I knew he wouldn’t want me to. Plus I didn’t think it’d be very comforting for him to see me dissolving into a big crying mess, too. Best let it be.

Mum came and led me away from the door, glancing at it herself, and I could tell she wished she could go through and comfort him, too. “Come on, luv. He’ll be okay. Did you text him where we’re going?”

“Yes.”

“He’ll likely come join us when he’s got himself together. Give him some time.”

It was a quiet, gloomy car ride out to Highgate. “Anybody else at the house today?” I asked. Sunday dinners at Nana and Grandpa’s were a bit scattershot. People showed up and left without much of a schedule. Nana usually just made a bunch of food and people could get what they wanted whenever.

“Estelle and Geej are there, and Geoffrey.”

“Adele?”

“No, she’s in Paris.”

“Oh.” I would have liked to see Adele. Estelle and Geej were the next best thing.

“And Lily, I think.”

“Oh, God.” Lily was nice enough, but she was a Pretty Girl, and she was constantly trying to make me over into her own image, as if I desperately wanted to know how to do a glamorous smoky eye and lacked only her tutelage to make my life complete.

“It’s the only way she knows how to interact with you,” Mum said, gently, knowing full well what I was thinking. “You and she are – different.”

“And yet everyone encourages her to keep trying to give me makeovers. Nobody seems to be encouraging me to teach her chess. See that dichotomy there?”

“I see it.” She sighed. “I’m sorry, luv. It was your bad luck to be born to the black sheep of the family.”

“You? The black sheep?”

“Naturally. I’m the divorced one with the _interesting_ family arrangements. And before that, I was the one who liked to dig up skeletons and boil corpses.” She hesitated. “The one who could never find a man.”

“But you did find a man,” I said. I hope she knew I didn’t mean Dad.

“I shouldn’t say things like that,” she said, as if I hadn’t spoken at all. “It’s not as if I were shamed and scorned. It’s more or less a joke.”

We pulled up to the house. Geoffrey was sitting out in front, smoking his pipe. Nana doesn’t let him smoke it in the house. Truth? I sort of like the smell of it. He got up as we walked up the drive. “Here’s my girl!” he said, gruffly, holding out his arms to hug me. “How are you, jammy?”

“All right,” I said, hugging him back. I don’t know what it is with me and food-derived nicknames. Sherlock and his crumpets and Uncle Geoff calling me jammy.

Geoff pulled back and looked in my face. “It’s okay if you aren’t,” he said.

I sighed. “It’s bad. It’s really bad.”

“I’m so sorry,” he said, one-armed hugging me again. “Is there any news?” he said to Mum, who’d come up next to me.

“We got a message from him last night. He’s safe and alive, for now.”

“Good God. Where is he?”

Mum and I exchanged a look. “We really don’t know,” she said. “It’s – complicated.”

“As in, you can’t talk about it. All right, then. I won’t ask questions. Where’s John?”

“He’s at home. He needed a bit of time to himself. He’ll likely be along later.”

“Of course, of course. Poor chap.”

We went inside. I could smell something delicious cooking. Hopefully Estelle was in the kitchen. “I smell bacon,” I said.

“Estelle’s making German potato salad,” said Geej, getting up off the couch to come hug me. “Your favorite, isn’t it?”

I smiled. German potato salad wasn’t exactly a quick and easy whip-up. Clearly Estelle hoped to cheer me up. “Yeah, it is.”

It was nice at Nana’s house. I could sit and be surrounded by people who love me and Nana would bring me snacks and nobody would be too demanding of me. Everybody knew what was going on and that I didn’t want to dwell on it, so nobody did.

I could see Mum and Nana conferring in quiet voices, sometimes with Geoff and Grandpa, too. She was probably updating them on the situation and telling them not to interrogate me about it.

“You know what you need?”

I looked up and there was Estelle, grinning. “What?” I said, grinning back in spite of myself.

“Delicious, delicious bacon. And vinegar and potatoes. All in the form of a salad that is very, very bad for you.”

“God, yes,” I said, taking the bowl from her. I scooped up a bite. It tasted like heaven. “Estelle, you are some kind of mad crazy food wizard.”

“My great-grandmother’s recipe. From the Old Country.”

“Which Old Country would that be, again?”

“Germany, of course. It is German potato salad, after all.”

“Right, of course. Stupid me.”

“I hear you kicked ass at your New York tournament.”

“One might characterize it that way, yeah.”

“What’d you think of my hometown?”

“Oh, it was brilliant! I ate at Gray’s Papaya, and we went to the Met, and the Empire State Building….” I trailed off, remembering some of the other things Sherlock and I had planned to do, before – well, just before.

“It’s a crazy place, isn’t it? There’s so much of it. It’s hard to believe anybody built all of that. You almost think it must have grown out of the ground. I guess that’s why they call it the concrete jungle.”

I nodded. “It was amazing. I just – I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to think of it any other way than that’s where I was when…” I didn’t finish. Estelle’s eyes went sympathetic.

“I’m sorry, Genie.” She leaned a little closer. “Are you okay? Nobody’s talking about it. You English and your proper reserve, it’s maddening. Doesn’t it drive you nuts?”

“Well, I’m English too, so not really,” I said, smiling a little. “I’m…” I sighed. “I’m not so okay. We got some bad news this morning. There’s nothing we can do to help Sherlock. He’ll have to come back on his own, or…”

“Goddamn,” she said. “Is this for real? Do things like this happen in real life?”

“To Sherlock, they do. It’s a different world he lives in. Master criminals and global conspiracies and secret societies…sometimes I wish he was an accountant or something.”

“How’s your dad, then?”

I met her eyes, black despair rising in my chest. I could still hear him in my mind, crying through the door. “Not good. I’m just so afraid this is going to…that it’ll break him or something.”

She put her arm around my shoulders. “Your dad’s a tough one, babe. He’ll be okay.”

I sighed and pulled myself together. “Yeah. We’re all so tough. It’s bloody exhausting.”

Dad showed up a few hours later, blowing in with the snow flurries that had started to fall. _God, it’ll be Christmas soon,_ the snow reminded me. Christmas without Sherlock, maybe. It was a really depressing thought.

He returned everyone’s careful, affectionate greetings, then made a beeline right for me. I stood and he wrapped me up in a big, strong hug. “I’m sorry, darling,” he said into my ear.

“It’s okay, Dad. I get it. You’re only human.”

He drew back, rubbing my arms. “It just wasn’t good news. Not what I wanted to hear.”

“Not for any of us.” He looked tired, and his eyes were a bit puffy.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I do know that no matter what, we’re going to be okay, and I’m going to be here for you and Mum, because you’re the most important thing in my life, okay?” He was looking straight into my eyes as he said this.

“What about Sherlock?” I whispered.

He sighed. “I have to trust him. I always have. I have to believe that he will get himself back to us. But if…” He cleared his throat and paused before going on. “If he can’t, if he doesn’t, we’re going to be all right, and we’ll still be a family, and I am always your Dad first and foremost. Okay?”

I nodded. I knew he meant it. I just wished he didn’t have to. I appreciated the sentiment, but part of me didn’t _want_ him to be my dad first. Part of me wanted him to say to hell with family life and go charging off after Sherlock, guns blazing, and drag him out of wherever he was and back home, and _then_ he could resume being my Dad.

Because I already know that without Sherlock, he won’t be the same Dad, or even the same person. I’m afraid that if I lose Sherlock, I will lose my Dad too, because I won’t know him anymore.


	24. 21 December

**The Blog of Eugenia H. Watson, Do Not Fold, Spindle or Mutilate**

 _21 December_

When I was thirteen, I saw my father kill a man. I suppose I ought to be traumatized by this and have nightmares, and spend hours recounting the incident to my therapist while suddenly going Goth and drawing disturbing watercolors using only black and red paints. Sometimes I wonder what it says about me that I’m _not_ traumatized. Do I lack human empathy? Am I some sort of disconnected monster? Or am I just that bloody tough? Dad says some people are wired to be able to deal with trauma better than others. I guess – yay for me?

Dad and Sherlock had taken me to the theater. I was on this whole drama-nerd kick at the time and was devouring Mamet and Chekhov and Tennessee Williams. Sherlock called in one of the approximately eleventy billion favors he is owed by everyone in the world and got us tickets to the sold-out run of Cate Blanchett in “Long Day’s Journey Into Night.” It was fantastic. Afterwards they took me to this lounge-pub sort of place where a lot of theater people hung out. I had fancy coffee drinks and I remember I felt so grown-up. There was a jazz combo playing and I saw some famous people. I sat in this cool zebra-print chair while Dad and Sherlock sat close together on a little divan next to me. Dad was smiley and glowy with a shot or two of expensive whiskey in him and he and Sherlock were being quite handsy with each other. Sherlock had his arm tucked round Dad’s waist and I’m pretty sure he had his hand on his arse for most of the night, while meanwhile Dad’s hand had decided to live on Sherlock’s knee, taking occasional day trips a bit higher up on his thigh. Must have been the close quarters; everybody in the pub was a bit fresh.

We left just before midnight. I was giddy with being allowed to stay out so late. We couldn’t get a taxi so we started walking to a busier street.

I didn’t realize we were in trouble until I heard Sherlock say “John,” in a low, urgent voice.

I looked and there were two rough-looking chaps ahead. I turned and there were two more behind. I felt Sherlock’s hand go into his pocket and his fingers moving, and I knew he was texting the Yard. “We’ll have your wallets, guv,” one of the thugs said.

Dad took out his wallet and held it up. “All right, then.”

Sherlock was slowly rotating so his back was to the alley off to our right, pushing me behind him. The four thugs started to back us into the alley. They probably thought that would give them an advantage, but all it did get us out from being flanked on both sides. I’m telling this all calmly now, but in the moment I was petrified. I hung on to the back of Sherlock’s coat and just waited for it to be over. Nobody was about. The thugs seemed a bit strung-out. Sherlock would later tell me that they were all well high.

One of them pulled a knife. “Think we’ll have the girl too, then,” he growled.

I felt Sherlock’s arm curl around behind him and press me to his back. “John,” he said again.

“Stay with her,” I heard Dad say, but it didn’t sound like his voice, his usual warm, fluffy voice.

“John, there are four of them,” Sherlock said, low.

“You want to turn round and get out of here,” Dad said, addressing the thugs now. “The police are on the way.”

“Don’t think so, mate.” He nodded to two of his mates. “Get the tall one. I’ll get the girl.”

And then they just charged us.

It all happened really fast. Sherlock shoved me down behind a skip but he stayed right in front of me. I saw Dad dodge the knife and grab the thug’s arm, then kick the other one in the stomach. Sherlock lowered his shoulder and flipped one of them over it, then grabbed a length of pipe from the skip and smashed the other one across the face. He went down and didn’t get up again. The first one jumped on Sherlock’s back and got his arm round his throat. Dad punched one across the face and ran to help Sherlock. The head thug, the one with the knife, ran up and swung wild, getting Dad in the arm. Sherlock yelled his name and somehow got the one on his back off of him, did something to his neck and the bloke fell over unconscious. Dad twisted around, grabbed Knife Thug by the arm and struck him backhand with his uninjured arm, hard. The bloke fell against the skip; his neck hit the edge and there was a really awful smooshy crunchy sound.

I heard sirens by then. Dad staggered back, clutching his arm.

“John!” Sherlock said, hurrying to his side. He tore Dad’s jacket off so he could look at his arm.

Dad shook his head. “It’s just a scratch.”

Sherlock nodded. “Quite superficial.” They looked at each other then, both breathing hard with the adrenaline. Dad grabbed the back of Sherlock’s neck and they kissed, hard and deep, but quick. Dad broke away and hurried over to me.

“Are you all right?” he said, lifting me off the ground and wrapping me up in one arm, keeping the cut one tucked against his chest.

I nodded. Yeah, I was actually all right. The police were coming into the alley then. One of them, a DS, seemed to know Dad and Sherlock. “What happened, Doc?” he said, addressing Dad.

“Muggers. They must be high on something to come after two grown men.”

“This one’s dead,” said one of the coppers, crouching over the Knife Thug.

Dad frowned. “He is?”

“Looks like his neck’s broke against the edge of the skip.”

“I didn’t intend to kill him. He stabbed me, I hit him, he fell.”

The DS shrugged. “Isn’t your fault how he landed. You two disposed of all four of them?” he said, eyes wide.

“It isn’t our first time,” Sherlock muttered. “We’ve had worse from better.” He had his arm wrapped around me too, so I was sandwiched between dads. I could barely breathe. They were both clinging a bit tight. “John’s hurt, Flynn. Did you call an ambulance?”

“I don’t need one,” Dad put in. “It’s a shallow cut. We’ll just pop over to the A&E and have it stitched up.”

“I’ll need to take statements from all three of you.”

“It’ll wait until morning,” Sherlock said, in his don’t-even-think-about-arguing tone. “You know where to find us. I’m taking John to be seen to.”

Flynn sighed. “All right, then. I’m come round your flat in the morning.”

“Fine.” We set off walking to get a cab. One of the coppers was already hailing one for us.

Dad turned and peered down at me, his hands going to my face. “You sure you’re all right, sweetheart? You’re not hurt?”

“I’m okay, Dad.”

His face was a big mass of worry. “God, you’re probably scarred for life.”

“I’m all right. Really.” I was still shaking, though. It had been pretty bloody terrifying, but it was over.

“Let’s call your mother to come collect you,” Dad was saying.

“No! I want to stay with you and Sherlock!”

“Genie, we’re going to the A&E, you ought to go home where you’ll feel safe.”

I just stared at him. I didn’t know quite how to articulate the fact that after what I’d just seen him and Sherlock do, I had never felt safer in my life than I felt standing between them. “Call Mum if you want, but I’m not going home until we can all go home together,” I said, hoping that I sounded like no contradictions would be tolerated.

Dad sighed. “All right. Let’s go, then.”

It’s only as I’ve gotten older that I’ve realized how different my family is, that not only Dad and Sherlock but Mum too could deal with an attempted mugging and possible rape that involved Dad killing a man in self-defense as just par for the course, another event to be totted up. I suppose their attitudes rubbed off on me. Other families would probably have been torn apart with fear and blame and nightmares and therapy after such an occurrence.

As for us, we went to an all-night diner for eggs and bacon after Dad got stitched up, and I told Mum about how Cate Blanchett had totally reinvented the character of Mary Tyrone while Sherlock kept touching Dad, little brushes and pats, like he was making sure he was really okay.

My family, ladies and gentlemen. Barmy and brilliant.

But right now, I’m not sure how much more I can take. I’m going a bit barmy myself. I’ve got my limits, after all. I’m spending practically every spare minute sitting by the computer in the so-far vain hope that Sherlock will contact me again. I can’t concentrate at school. I’ve told Leonid not to expect me to come round for awhile; he was surprisingly understanding.

It’s weirdly quiet around here. Dad and I are sort of walking circles around each other and Mum is leaving both of us alone. I can’t speak for him, but it sort of hurts to be around him because there’s this big empty space next to him and I can’t not see it, and if I talk to him we’ll just talk about _that,_ and I can’t bear to talk about it anymore. So even though I want him around and I need his comfort, all that’s trumped by just me wanting to avoid it. Which I know is rather shitty of me. I can’t help it. He’s my dad, he’ll forgive me.

Which leads me to what happened tonight.

Mum and I were doing the washing up after dinner. I heard Dad come home next door. A few minutes later the door into 221 opened up and he walked through – or, more accurately, staggered through.

He’d been beaten up. Badly. There was blood down one side of his face, one eye was blacked and his mouth was bleeding. He was holding his side and limping.

I heard Mum gasp. “John!” she said. She went to him and he sort of half-collapsed against her. She helped him to a chair at the dining room table. I was just standing there like an idiot, frozen to the spot. Mum glanced at me. “Genie, get the first aid kit.”

My paralysis broke and I ran to the bathroom and pulled the kit out from under the sink. Given that this is our household, our first aid kit is a bit better appointed than just some plasters and paracetamol. I ran back to the kitchen where Mum was cleaning his face. Dad was just sort of staring into nothing.

“John, what the hell happened?” Mum asked.

He sighed. “Last night I made contact with a man whose boss might have some information on where Sherlock is. Or at least I thought he might. I was supposed to meet him again tonight, but before I got there…” He trailed off, wincing as Mum cleaned the gash on his forehead. “Four men jumped me. But they weren’t from the man’s boss. Someone else. I think they were with whoever has Sherlock. It was a warning.”

Mum looked down at him, a strange expression on her face. “Genie, go to your room,” she said.

“But, Mum…”

“Go!” she snapped, shooting me a do-not-give-me-shit look.

I went. But I didn’t go far. I ran upstairs, opened and shut the door to my room, then crept back down until I could see them reflected in the hall mirror, and hear what they were saying.

When Mum spoke, she sounded well hacked off. “John, you heard what Mycroft said. How could you? How could you go out and endanger yourself like that?”

“How could I not, Grace? Am I supposed to just sit by and…”

“Yes! This once, for once in your life, sit by and do nothing. Think of Genie.”

“Don’t bring her into this. That’s not fair.”

“Not fair? Not _fair?_ And what if those men had killed you, what then? What am I supposed to tell our daughter if you get yourself killed?” Dad said nothing. Mum sat down opposite him and grabbed his hands. “John, I know how you’re feeling. I know more than anyone how much you love him. But you _can’t do this._ It’s too dangerous. Genie needs you, _I_ need you. Can’t you think of us?”

“I’m trying,” Dad said. He was hoarse. “I was going to leave it alone, really, I was. I keep telling myself to think of Genie and that Sherlock wouldn’t want me to take chances and all that rubbish.” He looked up at her and the look on his face, God, it made my insides go all watery. “But then things kept popping into my head. Silly things, little things. Like -- the way his voice gets rumbly when he’s asking me to come to bed. Or just that hint of a lisp he has on certain words.” Dad’s head fell into his hands. “I’ll remember his lower lip or his hands or his damn smug smile, and I can’t, Grace, how can I do nothing? I have to do something, anything, whatever I can do, what if he’s stuck there and he can’t do anything about it and he is just waiting for me to get him out and here I am, having Sunday dinner at your parents’ house and treating broken bones at work, God, Grace, you know how much I love Genie but he is my husband, and what kind of a man does that make me if I’m not moving heaven and earth to get him back?”

By the time he was done he sounded broken and choked-up and right on the edge. Mum scooted closer and took his poor bloodied face in her hands. “You want to know what kind of a man you are, John Watson?” she said. “The best one I’ve ever met, that’s what kind. And you have to know when to stop. You’ve never known when to stop, not you or him. It’s my job to tell you so I am telling you to stop.”

“I don’t know if I can do any of this without him,” Dad whispered. I hugged my knees close to my chest, because hearing my dad so unsure and shaky made me feel like I was standing on quicksand, and it might swallow me up at any moment.

“You can. You can and you will. You’re upset and you’re missing him and I know it all feels hopeless, I know just how it feels. John, I’ve lived twenty years without Nathan. I’ve not seen him or talked to him and every day it hurts, it hurts enough not to let me forget, but I’m telling you that it can be done. Sherlock will come back. I know he will. But if he doesn’t, you will still have yourself, and Genie, and you will always, always have me.”

Dad reached up and touched her face. “I love you, Grace.”

She pulled him close and hugged him. “I love you, too.” They sat there hugging for a moment and kissed a bit and I started feeling like it’d be okay. Mum pulled back. “We really should take you to the A&E.”

Dad shook his head. “I’m okay. Just a bit banged up.”

“How do the other chaps look?” Mum asked, smiling a bit.

Dad smiled back. “Two of them had to be carried away, let’s leave it at that.”

I got up and quietly made my way back up to my room. I knew Dad would come up and want to talk before he went to bed, so it wasn’t a surprise when he knocked just after ten. “Come in.”

He came in, moving a bit carefully. He looked a lot better with the blood washed off his face. He had a plaster up by his hair line and his eye was shadowed with a bruise, but other than that he seemed okay. “Not so bad,” he said, smiling.

“You went off and got all stupid, didn’t you?” I said.

“I’m afraid I was.” He sat down on the edge of my bed. “But I promise not to do it again.”

“You said that on Sunday at Nana’s.”

“I know.” He reached out and brushed a finger through my fringe. “I’m sorry, luv. I’m rather thick-headed sometimes.”

“No kidding.”

He gave me a look. “You don’t have to agree so fast.”

“Dad – I want Sherlock back more than anything, but the only thing worse than him never coming back is if you went away, too.”

“I know it feels that way to you. But sometimes all I can think about is him. It’s an unfortunate reality. Love makes people a bit stupid in the head.”

“Even you?”

“Oh, especially me. If you only knew half of the daft things I’ve done to impress people I fancied. I once tried to do a standing back-flip to impress a girl at uni. Sprained my shoulder and bloodied my nose. I’m sure she was dead impressed.”

“What daft things have you done for Sherlock?” I asked, smiling a bit.

“Oh, gosh. Let me think. Well, moved into a flat with a stranger. Chased a cab across London. Carried an illegal firearm. Disguised myself as a Russian ambassador. Examined dead bodies well past their sell-by. Rigged a house to make the owner think a poltergeist lived there. Gone without sleep for days on end. Bought all the groceries, and I do mean all.” He laughed to himself a bit, then reached out and pulled me close. I snuggled into his chest and hugged him back. “Near enough everything I’ve done for twenty years has been for him. Except the things that have been for you. You should come first, Genie. I should be a parent first and a husband second. But sometimes I’m weak and I don’t do the right thing.”

“You’re not weak, Dad.”

“I try not to be. And now, I promise you it’s done.” I felt him shudder.

“I don’t want you to let him go.”

“I won’t. I can’t. I’ll never let him go, not as long as I live. But if I can’t help him, if I really can’t, then I’ll stop trying.” I hated to hear him say that, but one look at his bruised face and I knew he had to.

Dad hugged me tighter, and for the first time since this whole nightmare began, we cried together.


	25. 24 December

**The Blog of Eugenia H. Watson, A Right Jolly Old Elf**

 _24 December_

Merry fucking Christmas.

The holidays have really sucked around here this year. I don’t need to tell you why. Mum and Dad are making an effort to let things be merry, but we’ve gone through almost the whole month of December with the shadow of Sherlock’s disappearance over us. I’ve been walking around with a semi-permanent resentful sneer on my face. Stop that singing. Take down those lights. How dare you shove holiday merriment in my face? Don’t you know Sherlock is missing? Don’t you know my dad is miserable? Don’t you know my whole family is staggering and exhausted and worried?

But the rest of the world seems to want to still have Christmas in spite of what’s going on with us, so Christmas it is. Bloody wankers.

Not that Sherlock is terribly involved in Christmas when he’s here. Oh, he gets us gifts and opens his own, he goes to the family gatherings, but mostly he ignores the rest of the goings-on. It’s not that his absence has such an effect on holiday festivities. It’s that his absence affects everything else.

There is a bit of a bright spot, though – at least I think it’s a bright spot.

We have an unexpected house guest for the holidays.

This afternoon we were doing the traditional pre-Christmas gift-wrapping marathon. These were the gifts for other people, like Adele and Lily and Roger and everyone else. Traditionally we spent Christmas Eve at home, just us, and then Christmas Day we’d go to Nana and Grandpa’s for Christmas dinner, followed by massive gift-opening extravaganza.

We weren’t feeling very festive. We hadn’t even managed to get the tree up this year. Mum had hung up our stockings like usual, but then there was That Awkward Moment when she hesitated over hanging up Sherlock’s. She hung it up anyway. I caught Dad staring at it later that night.

So we sat around the dining room table with the paper and the ribbon and scissors and tape and wrapped up Grandpa’s book, and Roger’s knife-sharpener, and everything else. I’d gotten a rainbow-patterned picture frame for Estelle and put a photo of her and me at Pride in it. Then there were toys for Emily and baby board books for Cillian and damn, there were lots of presents.

Dad pulled out a flat black box and stared at it for a moment, turning it around in his hands. I met his eyes and I knew that it was his Christmas gift to Sherlock. I held out my hand and he passed it over.

Inside the box was a beautiful Patek Phillipe pocket watch on a long filigreed chain. It was very modern, looked like a stainless steel housing, the mechanics visible and the watch face stark and minimalist. It would suit Sherlock perfectly. “Oh, Dad,” I said, Mum leaning over my shoulder to look. “This is gorgeous.”

“He hates wearing a wristwatch, so I thought…” He shrugged. “I thought he would like it.”

I flipped open the back. Sure enough, it was engraved. _Your blogger, always. Love, JW_ I smiled and looked up at Dad. “He’ll love it, Dad.” He just nodded. “Let’s wrap it up and put it under the…oh. Well, with the other presents.”

I handed the watch back to Dad and he wrapped it up. My own present for Sherlock – a new scarf that I had painstakingly knit myself under Metsy’s less-than-patient tutelage – would seem paltry in comparison, although Mum had put my name on a gift for him that she’d bought, a cunning little palm-sized HD video recorder.

We were just about finished when someone knocked on the door. We all looked at each other. “Anyone expected?” Dad asked.

“Not that I know of,” Mum said.

“It’s probably Zack or something,” I said, and got up to answer it. I trotted downstairs and opened the door.

It was not Zack.

The woman on the step had one of those “ready to deliver a friendly greeting” canned smiles on her face, but when she saw it was me, it faltered a bit. She stared at me with unabashed interest. I couldn’t help but stare back.

She was just a little taller than me, slender, and of indeterminate age. She had to be at least sixty but could have been much older. Her hair was pure snow white and cut brutally short; her face was lined but full of life. She was – well, she was very striking, with high cheekbones and a mouthful of straight, white teeth.

She was dressed in jeans tucked into knee-high boots that had seen a lot of wear. She had on a dark green thermal shirt under a frayed barn jacket and had a bright red kerchief tied at her neck. She was wearing a large pendant, a fossilized conch shell, on a long leather cord. She looked like an adventurer, like she’d just stepped out of a Jeep or out of the cargo hold of a plane in an Indiana Jones movie. She looked like what Amelia Earhart might have looked like if she’d lived another thirty years.

Then I looked in her eyes. Large and wide-set, a changeable shade of verdigris, not blue or gray or green but all three at once. I knew that color. I knew those eyes.

 _Sherlock._

“Genie?” she said, her eyebrows going up. “Oh…are you Genie?” Her accent was very posh, her voice throaty and cultured.

“Yes,” I said.

The woman abruptly stepped over the threshold and hugged me. She smelled like old leather and classrooms. I just stood there, sort of stunned. She pulled back, keeping her hands on my upper arms, now beaming a wide smile. “You’re so beautiful,” she said, a hint of pride in this declaration.

“I’m sorry, who are you?” I asked, although I was pretty sure I knew.

“My name is Ellie Forsythe. I’m…” She took a breath and let it out. “I suppose you could say I’m your grandmother.”

“My grandmother?” Her name had thrown me.

“Once upon a time, my name was Ellie Forsythe Holmes, dear. I’m Sherlock’s mother.”

My mouth was just hanging open. “Uh…I…well…” Great first impression, Eugenia. Really ripping.

She didn’t seem fazed. “I know this is terribly sudden, and rather rude of me to just show up like this. Mycroft didn’t give me much notice. I gather he didn’t tell you I was coming, did he?”

“No, he really, really didn’t.” I was gathering my composure. And my guard was going back up. “So you’re – Sherlock’s mother?”

She picked right up on the note of suspicion in my voice. “Oh, Mycroft said I’m to tell you ‘Stradivarius.’”

I relaxed. “Oh. All right. Thanks. Well, gosh! I’m a little overwhelmed! Um, come in, won’t you?” She came in and I shut the door behind her. We just stood there for a moment, staring at each other. “I’m sorry, I don’t really know what to say right now,” I said.

“It’s all right. I know I’ve caught you a bit wrong-footed.” She sobered. “And at a difficult time.”

“So you know, then? About Sherlock?’

She nodded. “In a way, that’s why I’m here. Finally.” I opened my mouth again but she spoke before I could get a word out. “I know you must have loads of questions, Genie. I’ll be happy to answer them all as best I can. But right now…” She swallowed hard. “I’d very much like to meet my son-in-law.”

At that very moment, the door upstairs opened and Dad came to the landing. “Genie, who was at the…” He stopped short when he saw Ellie. She went still, staring up at him.

“John?” she said, in a near-whisper.

Dad looked like he was seeing a ghost, or a made-up person sprung to life before him. “You – you’re Sherlock’s mother,” he said.

Her eyes widened. “You know me?”

He came down the stairs. “I think I’d know you anywhere,” he said, a note of wonderment in his voice. A tiny, shaky smile touched the corners of his mouth. “He has your eyes.”

They stared at each other for a few long beats, then all at once they were hugging, a whole-body hug like they were long-lost relations finding each other again. Which, I guess, they sort of were. Ellie finally pulled back, sniffling and wiping her eyes. She put her hands on Dad’s face. “Oh, you dear man,” she said. “I’ve wanted so long to know you.”

Dad nodded. “Likewise. I guess you’ve met Genie, my… _our_ daughter,” he said.

“Oh, yes.” She put her arm around my shoulders. Her manner was disarming and easy. I was already starting to feel like she was one of the family. How on earth had she raised two sons who were both so intimidating and standoffish? Their father must have been quite the piece of work.

“Come upstairs, meet Grace. And we have some things to talk about.”

We went upstairs. There was another round of introductions and hugs with Mum, then there was tea and confusion and finally we all got ourselves settled in the lounge. Ellie was looking at some of the family photos on the mantelpiece. Mum and Dad’s wedding. Me on my first day of school. Me and Sherlock at my first chess tournament. Me, Dad and Sherlock at Pride. Her eyes lingered on that one, I noticed.

“I feel as though I’ve been here before,” she said, looking around. “And I feel like I know you, all of you. Sherlock speaks of you so often. Especially you, John.”

Dad shifted uncomfortably. “I wish I could say that he’s spoken to us about you. I’ve asked, Genie’s asked, we’ve both wondered why we haven’t met you before now.”

“Don’t blame him for that, it was my request. I’m an absolutely dreadful mother. I’m never around, I come and go as I please and I’m impossible to contact. I raised my boys to adulthood, and then I pursued my own interests. To most people, my refusal to lay my own life on the altar of motherhood makes me a reprehensible creature. I made my peace with that long ago, and so did my sons, but I had no wish to inflict it upon their families. In addition, for the past twenty years I have not been allowed into the country. This visit is being conducted _ex officio,_ so to speak.”

Dad and I exchanged a glance. “You haven’t been allowed into the country?”

Ellie smiled, and it gave me a jolt, because it was that same smile, the smirky half-smile that I’d so often seen on Sherlock’s face. “The British government once took great exception to my sharing of so-called proprietary historical information with the outside world. I face arrest if I’m discovered here.”

“Sorry, but what exactly is ‘proprietary historical information?’” Mum asked.

Ellie sat down. “Perhaps I ought to explain my vocation. I travel the world seeking items and information of historical value.”

The pieces clicked in my head. “You’re a treasure hunter?”

She laughed. “You could say that. But I don’t hunt gold pieces or precious relics. I hunt for truth. Humanity’s truth. The missing pieces in the intellectual and creative development of our species. You’d be amazed of all the things we don’t understand about what we knew and thought, and when. Just as an example, I’ve just come from Tunisia. One of my colleagues thinks he may have discovered evidence that there was contact between Europe and the Far East a good five hundred years earlier than it is thought to have first occurred. If it’s true, it could explain a lot of things.”

I was fascinated. “You’re a historical detective!”

“That’s one way of putting it, perhaps. Sherlock has occasionally helped me, when the situation has required his skills.” She folded her hands beneath her chin, another gesture reminiscent of Sherlock, reminiscent enough that I felt Dad shudder next to me. “I’ve so often wanted to meet you, all of you. I haven’t seen Sherlock or Mycroft in person for well over a decade. My restrictions are often difficult to bear. Detachment from my family has been the price I’ve paid for the work I do.”

Dad sniffed. “You’re married to the work. That’s what Sherlock used to say. But he’s done it. He still does his work and he has a family. It can be done. You could do it, too.”

She gave him a sad smile. “Not everyone’s lucky enough to meet a John Watson to lead them to a better life, I’m afraid.”

“You don’t need to meet your own John Watson,” Dad said. He reached out and grasped her hand. “You’ve got the original, right here. You can’t be a tougher nut to crack than he was.”

“No, but I think he might object if you used the same techniques on me,” she said, her eyes twinkling with laughter. Dad flushed. “It’s too late for me, John. I appreciate the thought. But that’s not why I’m here.”

“If it’s news of Sherlock you want, we’ve none to give you. We’ve had no new information since his video chat with Genie last week.”

“I didn’t come in search of news. I came to bring you some.”

We all looked at each other. “You have news?” Dad said.

“Nothing specific. But when Mycroft told me his suspicions about the sort of people who had Sherlock – well, I think I know what he means. In the course of my work, I’ve dealt with just about every government on the planet, and the UN as well. Over the years I’ve gotten the sense that there’s something else at work, behind the scenes. Moving the pieces around the board. I’ve had occasions when I was stymied by a bureaucratic roadblock or a diplomatic incompatibility, and then suddenly with no explanation, the access or the information I need is dropped into my lap. I’ve had people I desperately needed to consult suddenly appear, as well as suddenly disappear. I’ve had the sense of events being manipulated, at a very high level, much higher than any single government.”

“What are you telling us?” Mum asked.

“That there’s a group. Maybe a network of groups. Maybe it’s individuals. I don’t know. There’s no name. There’s no headquarters, no secret underground lair. They’re just – out there. Moving the chess pieces. Sometimes making sure things go well, other times making sure they go badly. This is all very vague, I know. I’ve got nothing to show you, no evidence, no proof. No one ever does. But anybody who works globally, as I do, knows what I’m talking about.”

I reached out and took Dad’s hand. He gripped my fingers back right away. “What can we do?” he asked, sounding like he already knew the answer.

Ellie sighed, her eyes wet. “I don’t think there’s anything we can do, John. I don’t know any more than you do about these – people. I don’t know who they are or what they want or where they have him, or why they want him.”

“I know why they want him,” Dad said. “Because he’s the best.”

“Yes, he is,” Ellie said.

“They just better give him back.” Dad’s jaw clenched.

We all sat there in silence for a moment. Finally, Ellie spoke, her tone more cheerful. “Well. I know how we all feel about Sherlock. But I confess, I’m still happy to be here and to be meeting you. I would like to get to know you, if I can.”

Dad brightened a little. “We’d like that.”

She reached out and took Dad’s hands. “John, I – I hardly know what to say to you. Sherlock showed me a photo of you once, but you’re even more handsome in person.” Dad blushed again and ducked his head. “You must be a miracle worker, or at the very least a candidate for sainthood. You’ve done what I never imagined any person could do. You’ve made my son happy.”

He looked up and met her eyes. “He’s made me happy.”

She smirked. “Something else I never would have believed possible. I know Sherlock. I never thought he’d be part of a family, not even the one he was born into. And the idea of him being a father – well, it’s a terrible thing to say about your own child, but I would not have thought him capable.”

“He’s a good father,” I said.

“I’m glad to hear it. He’s certainly very proud of you.” She looked around at us. “I know I’ve dropped in you very unexpectedly, and it’s Christmas Eve. I don’t wish to interrupt your holiday plans.”

“Our plans don’t amount to much this year,” Mum said. “None of us can really muster up much holiday cheer.”

Ellie nodded. “I hope it’s not too presumptuous of me to ask, but…”

“Ellie,” Dad said, stopping her. “We’d be thrilled if you’d stay with us and share the holiday. I know for me – it would help.” He swallowed hard. “It’d be like having something of him here.”

And so I got a new grandmother for Christmas.

I hate to say it, but we were almost cheerful around the dining room table that night. Since Christmas was such a home-cooked holiday, our tradition was to get takeaway on Christmas Eve, usually Chinese. Ellie found this delightful, and to have her sitting in Sherlock’s habitual chair felt nice.

I was a little in awe of her, actually. Unless she’d started out as a teenager, she had to be nearly eighty years old. Sherlock was fifty, and Mycroft seven years older. She didn’t look much older than sixty, though, and seemed to have boundless energy. “So, Ellie,” Dad said. “Is it Eleanor?”

She shook her head. “Elspeth, actually. A lovely, stuffy old name. I’m rather fond of it.”

“Sherlock’s spoken of you in very vague terms,” he said. “He’s never told me much about his family, apart from Mycroft.”

“There isn’t much of a family left. Do you know anything about his father?”

“Just that he died when Sherlock was a teenager,” Dad said. Huh. That was more than I’d known.

Ellie nodded. “Our marriage was like something out of a Regency novel, I swear. The Holmes family was exceedingly rich but had only one male child, Fitzwilliam. Yes,” she said, smiling at me as my mouth gaped open, “like Mr. Darcy. Don’t think that wasn’t intentional,” she said, with a bit of an eyeroll. “He was Fitz to his friends, what few he had. His parents were dead set on marrying him to some woman with an aristocratic lineage. I had that but my family was by no means rich. I was twenty-two when I met Fitz. I’d dropped out of university and had spent two years traveling Africa with Doctors Without Borders trying to avoid my family. Bloody snobs, the lot of them. They caught me when I came home for a family funeral. It was a long shot, to be sure, but I liked Fitz. He was a nightmare socially. Cold and unfriendly and superior. But if you could get past that, he was the smartest person I’d ever met, and I like a challenge. He fell wildly in love with me. I agreed to marry him.”

“You _agreed?_ ” I said. “You didn’t love him?”

“I did, in a way. Remember, my dear, it was 1965. I was more or less resigned to having to marry someone at some point. Fitz wouldn’t expect me to be a dutiful homebound wife. He promised me as much freedom as he could give me to explore my interests, and quite frankly, his financial support would be a big plus.”

“You married him for his money,” Dad said, neutrally.

“That sounds so mercenary,” Ellie sighed. “It wasn’t the only reason. I won’t claim it wasn’t a ticky mark in his favor. I was fond of Fitz. I grew to love him more as he made good on what he’d promised me, even participated in his way. Mycroft was born in 1969, then Sherlock in 1976. They are both the image of their father, each in their way, although I like to think that Sherlock gets his sense of justice and his stubbornness from me.”

“Oh, so it’s your fault,” Dad said, smiling.

“Sherlock looks like you,” I said.

“In the face, perhaps. In his height and build he is his father’s son, for certain. Fitz died when Sherlock was fifteen. Mycroft was not much affected. He and Fitz never got on very well. Sherlock felt the loss greatly, but he subverted it into other things. It was then that he began throwing himself into the study of – well, everything. I always felt that he thought if he’d known enough, if he could see enough, then he would have been able to spot his father’s illness before it was advanced enough to take his life. And he’s been trying to make up for it ever since.”

Dad had a stricken look on his face. “Dad, what?” I said, putting a hand on his arm.

“Sherlock doesn’t pay much attention to anybody’s physical state, most of all his own, but – he sometimes is preoccupied with my health. He’ll ask me if I’ve had a checkup, he’ll notice if I’m lightheaded, or if I’m sore anywhere.”

Ellie nodded. “As I said. Making up for it.”

We all fell silent for a moment. “I have a question,” I said. “What the devil made you give them those _names?_ ”

Everyone laughed. “They’re both old family names,” Ellie said. “Mycroft is from the Scottish branch of the family, a croft is a term for a parcel of land. Sherlock is an old English surname having something to do with sheep shearing. Don’t ask me. They were Fitz’s ideas. Believe it or not, those were the least objectionable options I was presented with. I rather like them, myself. I enjoy unique names, which is fortunate, given my own.”

“I’m so used to the name that when other people comment on it, I hardly know what they’re talking about,” Dad said.

Ellie was looking down at Dad’s left hand, at his wedding ring. “When did you marry my son, John?” We were all a little surprised by the question. “I’m afraid my knowledge of the events of his life is somewhat scattershot.”

“Six years ago,” Dad said. “We’d been together for three years when he proposed.”

Ellie looked surprised. “ _He_ proposed?”

“Yes. I was just as surprised as you are.”

She shook her head. “The sea change in him – I just can’t overstate it.”

“He hasn’t changed so very much. He’s expanded. Accepted new aspects of himself that he’d written off as irrelevant. In essence I think he’s just as he always has been. Insufferable, condescending, and impossible,” Dad said, smiling.

“And would you have him change?” Ellie asked.

Dad sighed. “Not for anything.”

We sat there for a couple of hours, just talking. Mum told some funny stories about decomposed bodies (you’d be surprised how many of those stories she has), Dad showed Ellie some more photographs, and we had rum toddies and everyone got a bit tipsy, including me.

It almost felt like Christmas. But every time I’d catch Dad’s eyes when we were laughing, we’d both hesitate and our laughter would die off a little, because we’d remember our missing piece.

I hope wherever he is, he knows how much we miss him. I hope they’re at least having Christmas crackers at Evilco or wherever he’s being held. Maybe some egg nog? I hope they are treating him well. I hope he has the kind of tea he likes.

Merry Christmas, Sherlock. I love you.


	26. 25 December

**The Blog of Eugenia H. Watson, And to All a Good Night**

 _25 December_

OMG. OMG. Oh. Mah. GAAAAAAAAWD.

All right. I’m breathing deeply.

First of all, once again, happy fucking Christmas, except for real this time. Somehow our holiday has been salvaged from the pits of despair. Almost.

Ideally, we would have woken up this morning to find Sherlock sitting beneath the…oh, well, we don’t have a tree, but you know what I mean…with a ribbon around his neck. That did not happen. But we did get a present. Not from Father Christmas, although it might as well have been.

I’ll get to that in a bit.

Ellie slept in the guest room downstairs by Mum’s office. Mycroft brought her bags around. Didn’t even come in to say hello, the git.

I was signing off my computer when there was a quiet little knock at the door. “Come in?” I said.

The door opened and Ellie poked her head in, looking a little shy. “Genie? I know it’s late, I don’t mean to disturb you…”

“You’re not disturbing me.”

“I thought we might talk a little. Like girls do.” Her eyes were twinkling. I remembered that she only had sons, and might have missed out on the girlier aspects of being a mother.

“Sure,” I said, sitting cross-legged on my duvet. She came in, wearing flannel pajamas and a puffy dressing gown, and did the same.

She looked around my room. “You have a lot of chess books.”

“I think I have them all.”

“You’ve read them?”

“Oh yes. Some of them I have practically memorized.”

“Sherlock told me you’re competitive.”

“I am. I should be able to make the rank of International Master within the next six months.”

Her eyes widened. “Really? You’re that good?”

“I try to be.”

“And who’s this?” she said, zeroing in on a photo of me and Zack that I keep by my bedside. “Must be somebody important, to merit the nighttable photo placement.”

I blushed. “That’s my boyfriend, Zack.”

“My. He’s quite fit.”

“Yes, he is.”

“Do your parents approve?” I got the feeling that she rather hoped they didn’t, that I was rebelling and dating someone inappropriate. There, I couldn’t oblige her.

“Zack and I have been friends since we were eight, they’ve known him practically his whole life. It already feels like he’s part of the family.”

She smiled, then I saw her eyes fall on my scar. Her smile faltered a little. “Oh, luv. How did that happen?”

I stretched my leg out so she could see. I felt oddly unselfconscious about showing her my scar, I don’t really know why. “I had an accident when I was seven. I got lost or something and was missing for a whole evening. I had a bad fall and broke my leg clean through, then I fell down into a ravine. The broken bones poked through the skin and sort of tore through my calf. It was pretty bad. I almost lost part of my leg.”

Her hand smoothed over the knotted scar tissue. “How awful.”

“I don’t remember a lot of it. I remember Sherlock found me. I’m still not sure exactly how, but that accident changed things. With my Mum and Dad and Sherlock. It wasn’t long after that Mum and Dad got a divorce and we all moved here, and Dad got together with Sherlock.”

She watched my face. “I think it’s remarkable how you all have stayed a family. Such a thing would surely have torn most families apart.”

“I know. We’re just lucky, I guess.”

“Lucky, or smart.” She reached out and touched my face. “Well, we’d best be getting ourselves off to sleep, or St. Nick won’t come,” she said, with a wink.

“I wouldn’t want to chance that. I’m hoping for that shiny new bike, with the ribbons in the handlebars.”

Ellie went to bed, and so did I.

Which brings me to today.

Christmas morning was – okay, it was depressing. I got up around eight. Mum and Dad were already at the kitchen table, drinking tea in total silence. They both brightened when I came in, smiling and wishing me a happy Christmas. I leaned over and kissed Dad’s cheek, then Mum’s, and fetched my own tea.

Mum watched me sit down, looking a little sad. “Oh, John. We’re getting old.”

Dad looked at her. “What brought that on?”

“You know your years are advanced when your child is too grown-up to get excited about Father Christmas and wake up before dawn. Look at her, calmly drinking her tea as if there aren’t presents waiting to be opened.”

I smiled. “If you like, you can go back to bed and I’ll jump up and down on top of you shrieking for you to wake up.”

“On second thought, maybe some things are best left in the past,” Mum quickly said. Dad laughed. She was looking at him a bit dewy-eyed. Dad reached out and took her hand. “Seems like just yesterday I was meeting you in the lab at King’s,” she said.

“I know.” He kissed her knuckles. “You deduced where we’d been all afternoon, and all I could think was my God, there are _two_ of you.”

“And then Sherlock was snarking at us that instead of just making eyes at each other we should get on with it and exchange numbers so he could get on with his day. Eighteen years ago, John.” She sighed. “God, we were young.”

Dad smirked. “And we never needed anyone.”

“And making love was just for fun.”

“God! What are you talking about?” I said, alarmed at the turn this conversation had taken. They were both laughing.

“Oh, she doesn’t know that song. Now I _really_ feel old,” Mum said.

He glanced over at the stairs. “Do you think we ought to wake Ellie?” he said, in a low voice.

“Let’s give her a few more minutes.” Mum looked at him, then me. “What do you think of her?”

“I think she’s brilliant,” I said. “I could never picture the sort of woman who could have given birth to Sherlock, but now that I’ve met her, she’s exactly right.”

“I have a hard time imagining Sherlock as a child,” Dad said. “Can you picture him speaking in anything other than complete, grammatically correct sentences?”

“Or watching ‘Sesame Street,’” I added, giggling.

“Or throwing a tantrum when he doesn’t get his way,” Mum said. Dad and I both looked at her. “What?”

“Come on, Grace. He still does that,” Dad said. “Stompy feet and all.” We laughed. “She is something, though, isn’t she?” Dad went on. “I wish we could have met her sooner.”

The guest room door downstairs opened and closed, and we all hushed up. Ellie came up the stairs in her dressing-gown, smiling. “Happy Christmas!” she said. “Goodness, it’s nice to be spending it with a family.”

“You mean with _your_ family,” Dad said.

Ellie’s smile broadened. “Quite so. Thank you, John.”

“Shall we make some breakfast?” Mum said, which really meant _John, please make breakfast._

“Oh, no!” Ellie said. “We can’t eat breakfast when there are presents to be opened! We won’t starve, it’ll keep. Presents first!”

We all got caught up in her enthusiasm, which was ironic since none of the presents were either for or from her. We sat in the living room and pulled down our stockings and passed around our presents to each other. I got new fancy leather gloves and an antique chess set that was far too pretty to play with. Dad got the usual new jumper, and a book about Victorian surgical practices. Mum got a gift certificate to her favorite spa and I got her a pretty locket that she loved. Then there were more books and some candy and fun little trinkets in stockings. I noticed that there weren’t any gifts from Sherlock, or for him.

Once everything was opened, Dad got up and went over into 221 for a moment, coming back with a flat, wrapped package. He sat down next to me. “I saved Sherlock’s presents back, as well as the ones he was to give, but this is from both of us, and I think he’d want you to have it today,” he said.

I took it, a little apprehensive. “I’m going to cry, aren’t I?” I said. Dad just smiled and put his arm around me. I tore the paper off, bracing myself.

It was my adoption certificate, matted and nicely framed. The official document that had made Sherlock my legal father. There was Sherlock’s signature, and my name. Eugenia Holmes Watson. I stared down at it, waiting to cry, but I didn’t. My eyes stayed dry. “Yeah,” I said. “This is going to go up on the wall of every home I ever have.” Dad squeezed my shoulders and kissed my temple. I leaned into him a bit. “This didn’t make him my dad, though. He was before.”

Dad nodded. “I know.”

So, there was that little moment. Then there was breakfast – turned out Ellie was a really ripping cook and she made us an outstanding fry-up – and showers and nice holiday clothes and then we were into Mum’s car and off to Nana and Grandpa’s house. It was full to bursting today. Ruby and Frank, and Adele, and Geoffrey and Leona, Lionel and Jillian, all the cousins plus Estelle and Roger’s girlfriend Maizie, and then Harry and Clara and the kids. Lots of people. Easy to get lost. Thank goodness. As I suspected, everyone was fascinated by Ellie and fell over themselves to welcome her.

Speaking of unexpected guests, we had yet another one for dinner.

We’d just settled in with our drinks (wine was the preferred pre-dinner ablution) and I was happily ensconced with Geej and Adele in one corner of the den discussing this year’s Oscar-bait films when the doorbell rang. Adele got a big grin on her face. “Who’s that?” I said, smelling a rat immediately.

“Oh, just someone I thought might like – uh, dinner. Someone my sister might possibly like to see.”

“Adele, you did not!” I exclaimed.

But then I heard Dad’s voice in the front hall. “Greg! My goodness, this is a surprise!”

I jumped up and ran out of the den in time to see him taking Greg’s coat. “Didn’t they tell you I was coming?” he said to Dad.

“No, it must have slipped their minds,” Dad said, giving Adele a suspicious glance. Greg was holding some flowers and looking around.

“Adele suggested it,” Nana said. “Greg said he had no plans for the holiday, and I told him we’d be happy to have him here.”

“Oh, Adele suggested it, did she?” said Mum, appearing right behind me. Greg saw her and his smile widened. I quickly stepped out of the way. I did not want to get caught in that crossfire. Mum tossed her sister a we’ll-discuss-this-later look, then put on a friendly smile. “It’s nice to see you, Greg.”

He shuffled a bit and stepped toward her. Everybody was watching, Dad holding Greg’s coat like he was the butler. He held out the flowers, shy, like a teenage boy on his first date. “Happy Christmas, Grace.”

Mum melted a little. I saw it. She took the flowers. “Happy Christmas to you.”

It’s sort of funny that Greg is Dad and Sherlock’s friend, but somehow the whole family knew that he was really here for Mum. Clearly Adele had been doing some behind-the-scenes work. I elbowed her. “What are you up to?” I whispered to her.

“Come on. If we left them to their own devices, they _might_ go on a date before you graduate university. Maybe.”

“I’ll just go get a vase for these,” Mum was saying. She gave Greg a last little smile and headed off toward the kitchen. Greg sagged a bit and turned toward Dad.

“Sorry, John, I thought you knew.”

Dad shrugged, grinning. “It’s not my house. You’re very welcome here.”

Greg sobered. “Any news?”

Dad’s smile fell off his face with a dull thud. “No.”

“Damn, John. I’m sorry. How are you holding up?”

Dad’s jaw worked. “Not so great,” he said, quietly. Greg put a hand on his shoulder, a sympathetic pat, then looked over at me.

“And you, how are you, Genie?”

“I’m okay. I miss Sherlock.”

Greg sighed. “Never thought I’d say this, but so do I.” He forced a smile. “Any chance I can get a game of chess with you later?”

I cocked one eyebrow. “You sure you want to spend Christmas embarrassed and defeated?”

A round of hoots and catcalls went up from the assemblage at this. “Well, aren’t you cocky, then?” Greg said.

“I suppose I could go easy on you. You know, holiday spirit and all.”

Greg was fascinated to meet Ellie, and Dad shepherded him around the gathering introducing him to the family. He knew Harry and Clara already, and Adele, but the rest he hadn’t met. I helped Nana move the place settings at the big dining-room table, all the leaves in it to stretch it out to its full length, so he’d have a place to sit. “This is wonderful, all these new people,” Nana said. “I think that young man fancies your mum, Genie.”

I laughed. “Yes, he definitely does, Nana.”

“He’s a policeman?”

“Detective Inspector.”

“He’s terribly handsome.”

“I had a really awful crush on him when I was thirteen. He’s fancied Mum for ages but she’s never done anything about it.”

Nana sighed, hands on her hips as she surveyed the table, a bit more crowded than it had started out but still manageable. “Your mother hasn’t had an easy time of it. I had high hopes for her and John, but – well. Things worked out as they were meant to.”

“You really think so?” I asked.

She smiled at me. “I do. It’s a bit hard to explain to the bridge club. Some of them think it’s strange. I can understand that. But I can’t help but respect the honesty.” She clapped her hands. “Well! Let’s get everyone seated, there’s way too much food here for just me and thee.”

We all sat around the table, more or less haphazardly, although I couldn’t help but notice that Greg made sure to take a seat next to Mum. I ended up between Dad and Adele. Roger’s insipid girlfriend Maizie was directly across from me. She was extremely posh and fancied herself some sort of blueblood. Our family hardly lives in council flats but she’d been not-so-subtly looking down her nose at everyone the whole afternoon.

We’d just finished passing the plates and were digging in to Estelle’s otherworldly good cooking when the inevitable occurred.

“John, I’m sorry to ask, but I haven’t heard if there’s been news of Sherlock,” Ruby asked.

Dad swallowed a mouthful of duck before answering. “That’s all right, Ruby. I’m afraid there hasn’t been, not for some time.”

Ruby nodded. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“We’re staying optimistic.”

She turned to me. “How are you doing, Genie?”

“I’m okay. I miss him a lot, especially today.”

“Of course you do. It’s not right you should be apart from your father on Christmas.”

Maizie held up her fork, gesturing with it between me and Dad. “Wait. I thought he was your father,” she said, in her shrill little toff voice.

“He is,” I said, tightly.

“So who is it that’s missing, again? I’m confused.”

Dad spoke, low and even, his being-patient-with-idiots voice. “My husband Sherlock is missing.”

Maizie snorted. “Oh. So he’s just your stepfather, then.” As if that made it no big deal at all. “Cor, if my stepfather went missing, I’d throw a party to celebrate.”

The whole table went silent. Ellie shot Maizie an absolutely freezing glare. Roger shut his eyes and sighed. Estelle rolled her eyes so hard I’m surprised they didn’t pop right out.

As for me? All I felt was rage. Irrational, sudden, out-of-proportion rage. I suppose it had been building up for awhile. Dad put his hand on my arm, like he meant to hold me back, but I shook it off. “He is _not_ my stepfather,” I snarled. “He adopted me. He is my _father,_ just as much as John is, and I love him and I die a little bit every time I think about him never coming back, which you would know if you bothered to look up from adoring yourself for _one tiny second,_ you ignorant twat!”

Dad made a sort of choking noise. I heard Adele snort half-suppressed laughter. Ellie shot me a triumphant look across the table. Maizie gasped as if I’d physically struck her. She looked around, like she was hoping to find a companion in her outrage and indignation, but pretty much everybody was either trying not to laugh or still shooting her death glares. She jumped up, threw her napkin on her plate, and stalked out.

I was shaking a little bit. I picked up my wineglass and poured about half of it down my throat. “Nice girlfriend you’ve got there, Roger,” I said. “Where’d you pick her up, the Bitch Emporium?”

He didn’t even try to defend her. “Sorry, Genie. I’m really – I better…” He made a helpless gesture and got up to follow her out.

Silence fell. Uncomfortable, awkward silence. I was coming to the realization of what the hell I’d just said. “Nana, I’m sorry,” I said. “That was vulgar.”

“Oh, don’t apologize, dear. She is an ignorant twat,” Nana said, primly refolding her napkin in her lap. “Who wants more gravy?”

That did it. The entire table exploded in mad hysterics.

Well, Maizie refused to return. Nobody was sad about that. Roger put her in a cab and came back, and I must say he seemed much happier after she’d left. We managed to finish dinner. People kept calling each other ignorant twats. Please pass the potatoes, Geoff you ignorant twat. Can I have some more wine, you ignorant twat? And every time, everybody would laugh insanely all over again.

Only in my family could “ignorant twat” become not only a catchphrase but a term of endearment.

We adjourned to the den for presents. It was a melee of wrapping paper and ribbons and exclamations and lost bits of things. I’m losing steam writing this, I’ll not go into what everyone got, suffice it to say it was very nice, and then there was egg nog and board games and I did indeed trounce Greg very thoroughly at chess. He brought shame upon his family name and was well and truly chastised. In a fun way.

We headed home around nine o’clock, pleasantly tipsy (except for Mum, who was driving) and laden down with packages and leftovers. I rode in back with Dad and settled my head against his shoulder, the post-holiday lethargy settling on me. “Did you have a nice Christmas, sweetheart?” he asked me.

“Mmm. Almost,” I said. I didn’t need to say anything more.

“Well,” Mum said, “you little matchmakers will be pleased to hear that I have agreed to accompany Greg to a New Year’s Eve do, so you’ll have to count down to midnight without me.”

“That’s great, Mum! Ooh, what are you going to wear?”

“Don’t even start, Adele is already on the case.”

When we got back to the house, Mycroft was waiting outside. “Happy Christmas,” he said, neutrally.

“Hello, Mycroft,” Dad said, sounding exhausted.

“I’ve come to collect my mother.”

“Oh?” he said, turning to Ellie.

“He’s asked me to join him for an evening – gathering. I hope that’s all right,” Ellie said, looking a bit shamefaced.

“Ellie, he’s your son. Of course you should spend time with him,” Dad said. “Will you return here afterwards?”

“Oh, yes. I’ll be seeing you all in the morning.”

“Then we’ll say goodnight,” Mycroft said. He bustled Ellie into the car, then turned to us. “There is something inside waiting for you. It was not my doing. Please contact me later and we’ll discuss it.” He didn’t give us time to react to that, just got in the car and they were off.

“What the hell did that mean?” Mum asked.

Dad shook his head. “I had to have one infuriating in-law, didn’t I?”

We went inside, lugging our haul, clomping up the steps to 219 wearily. But I daresay it was mostly forgotten when we came into our lounge.

Sitting in front of the couch was a large clear glass screen. Behind it was a camera, pointed through the glass at the couch. The camera was connected to a not-small satellite dish, open and looking very incongruous in the middle of the carpet. “What in God’s name is this?” Mum said.

Dad walked over to it. “It’s a one-way monitor. Transparent from the back, projecting the image on the front so you can shoot video through it. It’s good for video chats.” He looked at me and I could see that we were thinking the same thing.

The three of us sat down on the couch in front of the monitor, Dad in the middle. There was a Post-It stuck to the monitor’s frame with “touch anywhere” written on it. Dad reached out and touched his finger to the screen. The monitor flickered to life, and we all gasped.

There was Sherlock, expectantly watching us. I realized that he’d probably been able to see us since we’d sat down on the couch. Dad’s hand shot out and he flattened his palm on the screen next to Sherlock’s face. “Sherlock!” he choked out.

Sherlock’s tense posture eased off and he beamed, getting that happy-relaxed expression he so rarely wore, and only in my dad’s presence. “John,” he said, bringing up his own hand to meet Dad’s. Mum had her arm wrapped tight around my shoulders. I just stared at his image, my stomach doing flip-flops. He looked fine. He didn’t look hurt or tired or malnourished or like he was being badly treated. He was still wearing the sort-of fatigues he’d been wearing when I’d seen him on video chat. I could see his wedding ring still on his finger.

“Oh my God, Sherlock,” Dad said, his voice thick. “Are you all right? Where are you?” Dad asked, keeping his hand pressed to Sherlock’s over however many miles separated us. “What the hell is going on?”

Sherlock sighed and leaned a little closer, staring at Dad’s image on his own screen. “God, it’s good to see your face, John,” he said. “I’m not ashamed to say I’ve spent a lot of time imagining it.”

“Sherlock,” Dad whispered, moving his hand to touch the image of Sherlock’s face. “Please, please tell me where you are, tell me how I can find you.”

He shook his head. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I’ve negotiated with my -- _hosts_ \-- to have this chat with you on Christmas. Their cooperation with my requests is contingent on my satisfying their conditions, as in, don’t reveal anything.”

“Who are these people? Who has you?”

“I can’t say. Not now. I’m in no immediate danger. They need my help. The tasks they are setting me are surprisingly agreeable.”

“Agreeable?” Dad repeated, sounding dubious.

Sherlock looked offscreen for a moment, thinking. “People often talk about all the things they’d fix, or change, or avenge if they only had no accountability and unlimited resources. That is exactly the position I find myself in.”

“Are you saying these people are actually trying to do _good?_ ”

“Good is a relativistic term. I don’t believe they think that way. The level of cold-blooded pragmatism on display here is – sobering. Consider that they had no qualms about removing me from New York and forcing me to leave my daughter alone in a strange city.” His gaze shifted to me. “Hello, Genie.”

“Hi,” I managed.

“Did you have a happy Christmas?”

“No!” I wailed. “You’re not here and everything’s horrible!”

Sherlock sighed. “I once craved solitude. There was a time when the chance to work undisturbed for as long as I wanted with nothing to divert my attention would have been very welcome. But now that I have it, I…” He trailed off and looked back at Dad. “I miss you. All of you.”

“We miss you,” Dad said.

“I don’t have much time. I wanted you to know that I’m all right.”

“You’re not in danger?”

Sherlock appeared to consider that. “I’m not in _immediate_ danger.” He and Dad shared a long look. Dad nodded, like he understood.

“I see.”

Sherlock turned to look at Mum. “Grace, I’m sorry to have put this burden on you.”

“It isn’t your fault,” Mum said. “I’ll look after them.”

“Thank you.” He looked at me. “I had a particular Christmas gift for you,” he said.

“The adoption certificate? Dad gave it to me.”

Sherlock smiled. “I wish I could have been there to see you open it.”

“Thank you. Not just for that.” I was crying again. Dammit. I wasn’t stupid. I knew that this might be the last time I ever got to talk to him. “Thanks for everything. For teaching me chess and how to deduce things and for picking me up from school all those times even though I know you hated it, and for finding me when I had my accident…” I tripped over my own words and had to grab at Dad’s hand so I didn’t fall on my face. “Thanks for being my dad,” I said. God, that sounded cheesy but I meant it and how else do you say something like that except to just come out and say it?

Sherlock looked utterly gobsmacked. “Genie, I’ll see you again.”

“You promise?” I said.

I could see that he wanted to lie to me, but couldn’t. “I can’t promise. But it doesn’t matter. You’re a bloody epic poem, Eugenia. I never even considered being a father. Now it’s hard to imagine not being yours.”

Oh, man. I was a sobbing mess by then. “Sherlock,” was all I could get out.

He smiled at me, but his smile went all wavery when he turned to Dad. “John…”

“Shh. Don’t,” Dad said, closing his eyes for a moment.

“No. I must. I might never…” He broke off. I could see the muscles in jaw clenching. “Read it. Tonight.”

“I’ve read it every night since you’ve been gone,” Dad said.

“John. Look at me.” Dad’s head was hanging down. With what looked like an effort, he lifted it up and looked. “It’s not the end.”

“It better not be, you bastard.”

“Have you any idea how inconvenient it is being in love with you?”

“I’ve got an inkling, yeah.” Dad sighed. “Always,” he whispered. Sherlock’s eyes crinkled for just a moment. He gave Dad a quick nod, looked at me one more time, then reached forward – and then the screen went dark.

I’d just gotten myself under control. Dad’s head dropped into his hands and unclear huffing noises came from behind his fingers. “Oh, Dad,” I said, reaching out to him.

He lifted his head and he was – laughing. “It’s okay. It’s all okay.”

“What?” I said, frowning.

“He’s got a plan. All of that? It was all for show. Not that he didn’t mean what he said,” he hastened to add. “When he said he wasn’t in immediate danger? Given what he told us about his hosts, and what they’re having him do, there’s no way that they’d just let him walk away. He knows too much already. They’ll arrange for him to have an accident or they’ll just assassinate him.”

“And you’re, what, glad about that?” I said, really confused now.

“No, don’t you see? He’s got it worked out!” Dad looked from me to Mum and back again. “Oh. You don’t see. No, I don’t guess you would. Genie, he called you an epic poem. Didn’t that seem a bit odd?”

“Yeah, it did, actually,” I said. “He doesn’t normally talk like that. I guess I thought he was just so moved by his fatherly feelings.”

“I’m sure he was, but Sherlock’s never so moved that he isn’t thinking. He and I once had a case that involved a very complicated interconnected series of blackmail schemes. It was like bloody matryoshka dolls, one secret inside another.” Dad paused for effect. “Sherlock refers to that case as the epic poem of blackmail. He used that phrase on purpose so I’d know that he has a plan.”

“Well? What’s the plan?” Mum asked.

“I haven’t the foggiest. He couldn’t tell me that over a connection that’s surely being monitored. He just needed me to know that there was one. I’d guess he’s intending to force his hosts’ hand with some of the information he’s being given access to. I have to call Mycroft. We’ll need to be on the lookout for information dumps from him. Blackmail’s no good unless the secrets are in a secure location.” He heaved a big breath.

“So – I’m not an epic poem?” I said, vaguely disappointed. I rather liked the analogy.

Dad grinned. “You are nothing less than The Odyssey, sweetheart.”

“Dad – what did he mean when he told you to read it? That didn’t seem like he said it for some secret reason.”

He sobered. “No. No, that was real.” Dad ran a hand through his hair. “Genie, do you remember the little gesture he made in the video chat? The one I said was a message, to me?”

“Yeah. You said he was saying ‘I love you.’”

“He wasn’t, not exactly.” Dad glanced at Mum. She gave him a little nod. “After your accident, I had a lot of things to work out. About how I felt about Sherlock, and your mother, and how I could ever keep my family and be honest with myself. I took a sort of sabbatical, alone, just to think. My only contact with Sherlock during that time was a letter he wrote me. The things he said – well, it’s the most honest he’s ever been with me, the most directly he’s ever told me how he feels about me. He was very frank. He didn’t hold anything back. There’ve been times in our relationship when I’ve been frustrated with his – how to put this. He’s not the most verbally demonstrative man in the world. Sometimes I want to hear things more than he’s willing to say them. When I’d get upset about it, he’d tell me to go back and read the letter, because everything in it was just as true as the day he wrote it. It became a sort of codephrase between us. Read the letter. That gesture he made in the video chat? It was three fingerspelled letters. RTL.”

“Read the letter,” I said.

“And he just told me to read it again.”

“You said…”

“That I’ve read it every night since he’s been gone.” Dad stared at his hands. “I have. Lord knows I don’t need to, I have it committed to memory by now. But I take it out and I read it, and sometimes I can almost hear him.” He smiled a little. “It’s taken a long time, but I’ve come to understand that he has trouble saying things to me not because he’s unwilling, or because he doesn’t want to say them. It’s because he doesn’t feel that his words are adequate expressions of how he feels. I can tell him he’s being ridiculous, but he’s such a bloody perfectionist.”

What I didn’t say was that I’d figured this out years ago. It isn’t that Sherlock doesn’t love Dad enough to say the words. It’s that he loves him too much, and the words don’t seem like enough. “That must have been some letter,” I said.

“It didn’t convince me of anything at the time. It just confirmed what I already knew. And it told me I was doing the right thing. I’ve never regretted it. I hope none of us have.”

He looked past me to Mum. She smiled and reached out to take his hand. “I regret a lot of things, John, but not what we have, or what we are.”

I put my hand over theirs. “So we’ll get Sherlock back?” I asked.

Dad looked thoughtful. “Well, I’m not sure. He’d have to have the world’s greatest detective helping him.”

I put on a mock-surprise face. “Oh, wait! He does!”

Dad grinned and hugged me. Mum hugged us both. And that is how Sherlock saved Christmas, from thousands of miles away.


	27. 1 January

**The Blog of Eugenia H. Watson, Hungry Like the Wolf**

 _1 January_

Happy new year! It has certainly been a happier one than we could have predicted not so long ago. We’re all a bit calmer since we actually got to talk to and see Sherlock and know that he’s not being tortured or starved or held in some dank little hole someplace. And Dad’s pretty confident that he can find a way to get himself free, so I’m taking that on faith. We might now be in a position to help him, too. More on that later.

It’s been a busy week since Christmas. Right after getting Sherlock’s message, Dad became convinced that Sherlock would try to find a way to get a message to him, or some sort of information storage so he can put the screws to his “hosts,” so he started running around like a madman contacting every shadowy operative he’s met in the last twenty years in case Sherlock might reach out to one of them. As it turned out, when the message did come, it was a surprise to us all.

The day after Christmas, Zack’s family invited me to go with them out to Zack’s grandmother’s house in Brighton, which is a yearly thing for them. His grandmother is fantastic. She’s been a widow for twenty years and one day she decided to up and move to the seashore and become an artist, so she did. She paints these fantastic surrealistic landscapes. I seriously want one for my room.

I was a little hesitant to accept, because Ellie was still with us and I wanted to spend more time with her. But Zack and his parents weren’t leaving for Brighton until the 27th and Ellie planned to have left herself by then.

“Can’t you stay longer?” I said, when she told us she’d be leaving soon. I didn’t want to say so, but having her around made me feel closer to Sherlock. Seemed rude to want someone around not for themselves but as a stand-in for somebody else, though, so I kept my mouth shut.

“Oh, luv, it’s sweet of you to ask, but I’m a terrible houseguest.”

“You’ve been lovely so far!”

“Any moment I will become demanding and unpleasant,” she said, her eyes twinkling at me. “Besides, I have to get back to work. I’m so behind, my colleagues will throw pies at me when I return. But I’m so glad I got the chance to meet you all, finally.”

A car came for her after dinner. She hugged me and then hugged Dad, supertight. They seemed to share some kind of silent communication, then she went outside and was gone, amid promises to email and ring us, and to visit again soon.

So then it was all about The Parental Vote. I sat them down and laid it all out. “So, here’s the situation. Zack has invited me to go down to Brighton with his family for a few days.”

“How many days is a few?” Mum asked.

“They’re leaving tomorrow and coming back New Year’s Eve day.”

“And where would you be staying?” Dad asked.

“At his grandmother’s house. She lives there.”

“Genie, truth. Did his parents invite you, or did Zack?”

“They all asked me together. I swear!” I said, off their skeptical looks. Dad glanced at Mum and shifted a bit in his chair. “His parents are going to be there the whole time, Dad.”

He made a big show of considering this, complete with chin-stroking and unclear “hmmpph” noises. Mum watched him out of the corner of her eye, smirking. “All right, Genie. Last question. And I require the truth, understood?”

I nodded. “Understood.”

“Will there be sex of any variety happening on this vacation?”

I took a deep breath. “Well, Dad, here’s the thing. I think the odds are low. But I can’t rule it out completely.”

He made disgruntled noises. Mum put her hand on his knee. “John,” she said quietly.

“I know, I know,” he said, sighing. “All right. We trust you to act responsibly, Genie.”

I squeaked a little. “Thanks, Dad!” I hugged him.

Dad didn’t need to know that Mum took me aside later to make sure I’d been faithfully taking my birth-control pills and check that I had -- supplies. “Mum, I really don’t think...”

“Shush. Preparedness is the watchword.”

“That sounds like the motto from one of those Cold War public service announcements.”

“Well, maybe it is, but it applies to a lot of things.”

“You know, me and Zack haven’t -- I mean, we’ve not gone that far.”

Mum sighed. “I’m glad to hear you aren’t rushing things.”

“I can’t. Not with him. It’s...” I didn’t really know what I meant. “I guess the stakes are higher. It’s too important. Because it’s him, and it’s us, and I know I’m way too young to think long-term but...” I didn’t have a good ending for that sentence, or at least not one I felt comfortable giving voice to.

“It’s good that you’re taking it seriously. He isn’t pressuring you, is he?”

“Oh God, no. If anything he’s being extra careful. I think he’s in the same place, with the high stakes. Neither of us wants to risk mucking things up.”

“That’s always a risk, I’m afraid.”

So on the morning of the 27th, I hugged Mum and Dad goodbye and went across the street with my duffel on my back. Zack’s parents, Earl and Maria, hugged me hello. They’re super huggy, even a little overly so. I think it’s because Maria is from a very demonstrative Italian family (I’ve been to family events of theirs and was grateful to escape with my life) and it’s sort of rubbed off on her very stalwart British husband and in-laws. I can’t denigrate Zack’s Italian heritage, though. I have it to thank for his totally fantastic head of hair. It’s really excellent for running fingers through. He purrs like a cat when I do that. It’s adorable.

He also has _just_ the right amount of chest hair, and...I’m going to just shut up now.

So Maria enveloped me in her oregano-scented embrace. “Oh, sweetheart, we’re so glad you could come,” she said. Her accent’s pure RP but she’s got Italian cadence, and it’s very strange-sounding. “What with all the trouble round your place, we thought you could do with a spot of a holiday,” she said, giving me the big warm sympathy eyes.

I guess by “all the trouble” she meant my Amazing Vanishing Dad. I wouldn’t have called it “trouble” so much as a catastrophe visited upon us by persons unknown, but people don’t really know how to address it when your dad, already known to be a personage of some import and mystery who spends his time chasing criminals and fighting crime, up and disappears with no explanation. It isn’t really a topic that regular people know how to talk about. They can talk about it if a relative of yours is sick, or going through a divorce, or having money troubles, but shadow-government conspiracies and unexplained absences aren’t really part and parcel of the neighborhood toybox of topics. “Thanks, Maria,” was all I said. “We did hear from Sherlock on Christmas. He’s all right. We hope he’ll be home soon.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful news,” she said, hugging me _again._ “Your poor father. I can’t imagine it. I’d go round the bend if such a thing happened to Earl.”

“Let her be, Mum,” Zack said, reaching out to drag me upstairs. “You’ll have lots of time to grill her for information. C’mon, Genie. Help me pack.”

He was already packed, of course. He just wanted to get me alone to snog me senseless, which he did. I hadn’t seen him in a few days, not since he’d popped over on Christmas morning to give me my present. It was a leather briefcase-y sort of carrier bag for my chess sets. It’s fantastic. It has slots for the boards and small individual pockets for the pieces and a pocket for my notebooks and my timer. I’d never seen such a thing before and said so, whereupon he told me that he’d had it custom-made for me, one of his dad’s friends owns a leatherworking shop.

Best boyfriend ever? Prove me wrong.

Oh, Zack’s not perfect. He’s far too invested in sport for my personal taste. I know the rules of rugby and football but I really couldn’t care less, and now he’s discovered this mixed martial arts fighting, which I think is the most horrible thing ever but he thinks is the best thing since my tits. Sometimes deployment of the tits in question is the only thing that can get him away from it. He can be crude, he sometimes says things without thinking, things that aren’t so nice. And like pretty much every teenage boy I’ve ever met, he’s sort of obsessed with the whole man-hierarchy, his status with the other blokes. This mob-mentality thing happens sometimes and lowers everyone’s IQ by about thirty points.

But he’s not a slave to it. He’s just a tad more evolved. This one time I was waiting for him in the park and he walked up with this big crowd of his mates. I was behind a fountain, he didn’t see me but I could hear him. The mates were ragging and scrapping like boys do, and they saw a sort of swishy chap go by. When he was out of earshot they started taking the piss, calling him a poof and worse. Then I heard Zack say, “Knock it off, you tossers. My girlfriend’s got gay dads and either of them could kick your skinny arses for you.” They gave him some shit about it but he didn’t back down, and they left it alone.

He got extra snogs that day, I can tell you. As he was getting right now, just because I wanted to and he’s lovely, ergo snogs. And then his hands were on my arse, which is just fine. “Your dad okay? I mean with you coming away with us?” he asked, sort of in between kissing my neck.

“He said he’d miss me. Too many of his favorite people are gone.”

“He’s still got your mum.”

“Yeah, but he can’t shag her.”

“Oh, he could. I bet Sherlock would understand.”

I snorted. “Then you don’t know Sherlock. He is the jealous type.”

“Yeah?”

“This one time a bloke chatted Dad up in a bar. Sherlock lifted his wallet and rung up a huge bill of naughty Ann Summers stuff, then had all the stuff shipped to the bloke’s secretary while the bill got sent to the bloke’s wife.”

Zack snorted. “That’s sort of diabolical.”

“Dad was pretty mad when he found out. He made Sherlock pay for all the stuff and explain it to the bloke’s wife so he wouldn’t end up divorced.”

“Hmm. Seems like the fact that the bloke was chatting up men in a bar would take care of that eventually.”

“All this talking is really interfering with our getting off. Quiet.”

So off we went to Brighton. Zack’s grandmother had made fondue. Seriously. I think her fondue set was an original avocado-green key party model from 1974. Excellent.

The beach isn’t so exciting in December, but the weather was passably tolerable so Zack and I went for walks, bundled up with the spray whipping our faces like icicles, and came back to Grandma’s cozy toasty fireplace-warmed house with our cheeks red and our noses running. Maria made cannoli and there was always tea. We cuddled up under blankets and watched old movies on Grandma’s really ripping high-def Blu-Ray system. Not one to be technologically left behind is Zack’s Grandma Lancaster.

Grandma’s house had four bedrooms so we all got our own. I snuck into Zack’s for some snogs and some hands in interesting places, but went back to my own bed before things got too heated. Then I couldn’t sleep. I just lay there staring at the ceiling, thinking about Dad. He’d be in bed now too, but probably not sleeping either. Was he staring at his ceiling? Was he curled on his side, trying to pretend he wasn’t alone? Did he talk out loud to Sherlock, as if he could hear him? Did he think about him, or did he just put it out of his mind? Was he angry, or scared?

We weren’t really acknowledging the possibility that Sherlock could die. That we’d get him back in a box. We knew he was with dangerous people, people who’d kill him to keep their own secrets. But Sherlock couldn’t die, could he? He was immortal. At least he’d always seemed that way to me. Invincible and eternal. Larger than life and bigger than everyone. Taller and louder and deeper and smarter and just _more_. Who could kill him, and how? Surely it wouldn’t do to just use a gun or a knife or your bare hands. Wouldn’t you need silver bullets or magical incantations or some sort of ancient Mayan voodoo?

The next day Zack and I and his parents went into Brighton. Grandma lived on the outskirts, where it wasn’t so built-up and touristy, but some of the things in town were fun. We ate bad food and enjoyed the holiday decorations that were still up. There were freezing street performers and music seeping out of the air and it was a good time.

Zack and I walked down the big pier out over the water. There was a little old grandma, hunched and withered, pushing a pram full of empty bottles. She was taking up the whole boardwalk, practically. Zack and I politely edged past her, but as I drew even with her she grabbed my arm and yanked me close. “Oi!” Zack said. “Lay off her!”

The old women’s poached-egg eyes were huge and watery. She was pushing something into my hand. “Stradivarius,” she whispered. Then she let go of me and toddled off down the pier. I just stared.

“Genie? What the hell was all that?” I couldn’t move. Zack peered at my face. “Genie? Are you all right, luv?”

I took a big breath. “Yeah. I’m okay.” I opened my hand, which had been clenched up. Lying there on my palm was a flash drive. I got out my mobile and texted Mycroft’s for-emergencies-only number. _Stradivarius._ That was all he needed. He knew where I was. “Zack, can we go home? I’m not feeling so great.”

“Sure, of course,” he said, frowning with concern. I felt bad about making him worry but Mycroft would send someone to collect the flash drive and I wanted to be there to hand it over.

We left his parents in town and took a taxi back to Grandma Lancaster’s house. I sat down in a comfy chair where I could see the front of the house and let her fuss over me, bringing me extra blankets and warm cocoa. “You’ve been out in this damp cold too long, you’ll catch your death,” she said. “I ought to’ve given you my puffy coat to wear.”

Within an hour, a man walked by the house. He didn’t stop, he didn’t look, but it was him. I waited until Zack was upstairs and Grandma was in the kitchen, then I slipped out the front door. He was waiting for me behind a tree a few doors down. “What’s the password?” I asked. Couldn’t be too careful.

“Stradivarius.”

“Here,” I said, handing him the flash drive. “An old woman on the Brighton pier gave me that. She knew the password. It must be from Sherlock.”

He slipped into a pocket. “Did you look at its contents?”

“No, I was afraid to.”

“Good. Best that you didn’t.” He nodded at me and left. That was all.

I was a bit on edge for the rest of our vacation. I tried to put it out of my head, but I couldn’t help but think about what it meant. If Sherlock had smuggled out some sort of leverage against his hosts, that might mean he could get them to let him go.

It might mean that he could come home.

We drove back to London on the 31st. I did not sleep with Zack, in case you were wondering, but there were some activities participated in that were new to us, and which proved to be very satisfactory.

Which brings me to the other activity on the agenda that proved to be very satisfactory, namely that my mother had a date.

Dad hugged the stuffing out of me when I got home from Zack’s. “Careful,” he murmured in my ear. “There are intense fashion negotiations taking place in your mother’s room.”

I wanted to be a witness to that, for sure, but first I had to tell Dad about the flash drive. I led him over to 221 and told him about the old woman on the pier and everything else. “Why didn’t you call and tell me right off?” he asked, his eyes bright and excited.

“I wasn’t sure, I thought – mobiles, you know. Don’t they have listening satellites and such? I didn’t want to risk it.”

“Of course. You’re better at this than I am already.” He sighed. “I hope that’s a good sign, like you said. Cor, sweetheart – I’ve had to stop waiting, stop hoping, and just try and live each day to the next because otherwise it just hurts too much to…” He broke off, swallowing hard.

“I know, Dad,” I said, grasping his hand. “He’s coming home soon. I just know it.”

“I hope you’re right.”

I left Dad and went into Mum’s room. She was in her knickers and some sort of medieval-looking undergarment and Adele was tossing clothes around like the Mad Frock Bomber. Mum came over and hugged me, which was a bit odd with her half-dressed. “What’s all this?” I said.

“Your Mum is going to a very posh New Year’s Eve do tonight and she must be appropriately frocked,” Adele said. “What about this one?” she asked, holding up an emerald-green shimmery thing with fringe.

“You want me to wear _green?_ I might as well tote around a pot of gold!”

“Green looks good on you!”

“Nope. Too Irish. And must I wear this torture device?”

“You need smooth lines, Grace. Your hips aren’t what they used to be.”

“That happens when you give birth, you know.”

“Where’d you get all these?” I said, picking up one fabulous gown after another.

“Oh, I raided some closets at work,” Adele said, flapping a hand. “Pity your mum isn’t a sample size, there could be loads more.”

“Yes, bad job on me for not being a size two at age fifty.”

“Ooh, I like this one,” I said. “It’s very mod.” It was a sheath dress made of some flowy material. It was silver and white and shimmery with subtle geometric shapes in shades of red.

Mum took it and held it up to herself. “Hmm. I like this one, too.” She stepped into the dress and Adele zipped her up. It fit her like a coat of paint.

“Oh, Pepper. Your dashing DI is going to have some sort of seizure. You even have shoes for this too, those red stilettos. And it sets off your hair beautifully.”

“I don’t know why you two didn’t just come to me first,” I said, airily.

“Oh, out with you,” Adele said, shooing me out the door. “We’ve got hair and makeup to sort out and Greg is coming for her at seven.”

So Dad and I hung out on the couch in 219, watching inane New Year’s concert specials and marathons of home-improvement shows. At around quarter till seven, Mum emerged. Dad and I both sort of stared, open-mouthed, because she looked like a movie star. Mum’s never looked her age. She could pass for forty easy, and with her figure shown off in that dress as it wasn’t in her usual pencil skirts and button-downs, she looked like she stepped off the cover of Vogue. Her red hair was flatironed and just hung straight, and Adele had brought all her considerable makeup skills to bear and made her look stunning.

Not that she isn’t stunning normally, of course. Dad got up and went over to her, shaking his head. “Oh, Grace. You look amazing.”

She blushed a little. “Thanks, John.”

“I swear, if I weren’t a married man…”

“And if you didn’t prefer cock,” Adele interjected.

“Adele!” Dad exclaimed, while Mum just laughed. “ _Anyway…_ you look really beautiful. Greg’s a lucky bugger.”

Mum touched her hair a little nervously. “You know how long it’s been since I was on a date?”

“Eighteen years?”

“Ish, yeah. Dunno what to do. What if he gets fresh?”

“Let him,” Dad said, grinning. “What’ve you got to lose?”

There was a knock at the door. Dad trotted downstairs and we heard him greeting Greg. They came up together, and I swear, the look on Greg’s face when he saw Mum might have been funny if it weren’t so obviously sincere. “Grace, I – you look – wow,” he stammered. Dad winked at me from behind Greg’s back. Greg looked fantastic himself, in a classic black tuxedo. They’d make quite the couple at whatever party this was they were going to.

“Thanks,” Mum said. “Shall we go?”

“Yes! Absolutely, let’s be off,” he said. He held her coat for her and she took his arm as they went outside to the waiting cab. Dad and I huddled at the front windows and watched them drive off.

“Nice that someone gets to be with their sweetie tonight,” I said, glum.

“You could be with yours, too,” Dad said. “You needn’t feel you have to stay home to keep your poor old Dad company.”

“I’ve spent the past four days with Zack. I need some Daddy time.” Dad looked touched by this, and he squeezed me with one arm. “Besides, I couldn’t let you sit here by yourself when the ball goes down.”

He looked down at me. “I will never stop being amazed that I ended up with a daughter as brilliant as you.”

“Aww, don’t. I’ll start crying, then you’ll start crying, and that is no way to ring in the new year.”

He agreed. So we popped some popcorn and watched a cheesy disaster movie, the sort we can never watch when Sherlock’s around because he picks them apart, and when it got near midnight we turned on the countdown. Dad got out some champagne and we had a toast, and at midnight he kissed my cheek and we had a bit of a cuddle.

We were finishing our second disaster movie when Dad’s mobile rang. He brightened up immediately. “I asked Mycroft to text me when Grace and Greg were on their way back, so we could spy on them,” he said, rubbing his hands together. We darkened the living room and crouched by the windows, peering over the sill so we could see the pavement out front.

Their taxi pulled up a few minutes later. Greg got out and came around to open Mum’s door. She stepped out. “She looks happy,” I said. She was smiling and they were joking with each other. They stood there facing each other, talking quietly, probably saying the usual “I had a nice time” and “Thanks for the lovely evening” stuff.

Greg reached out and took her hands in his. She didn’t pull away. He leaned in, slowly to give her time to disengage, but she didn’t. She leaned forward and closed the distance, and they shared a sweet kiss. “Aww, there you go,” Dad murmured. Mum pulled back. “Well, I guess they had…”

He didn’t get much further, because then Mum dropped Greg’s hands, grabbed the front of his coat and pulled him in for a real kiss, a big wet snog. “Go, Mum,” I whispered. Greg put his hands on her waist and kissed back. This went on for a few seconds before they finally broke apart. Greg looked a little gobsmacked. Mum smiled at him, gave him a little wave, and walked to the door. We heard her keys in the lock. Greg waited until the door shut behind him. He did a funny little jig complete with fist-pumps, then all but skipped back to the cab.

“Did you get all that?” came Mum’s voice from behind us. Dad and I jumped guiltily.

“Uh…I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Dad said, as we knelt in a darkened lounge, peering out the windows.

She laughed and turned the lights back on. “Happy new year,” she said, coming over to hug and kiss me, then Dad. She was all glowy.

“I guess you had a good time,” Dad said, a teasing curl in his voice.

“Honestly? It was divine. Greg took me to Gordon Ramsay, can you believe it? I don’t want to know how he got those reservations. And this party was completely fabulous. I felt like a debutante. And Greg is a charming dancer, did you know? He was fantastic company.” She blushed a little. “I like him. I had fun. Like, real fun, with a man.” She shrugged. “I guess I’d sort of counted that out.”

“Never too late for it,” Dad said.

“I guess not.” She grinned.

“So you’re going to see him again?” I said.

“Definitely. Something a little less high-maintenance,” she said, gesturing at her party dress and makeup. She looked from me to Dad and back again. “Did you two have a nice night?”

“We watched bad movies and ate bad food. What’s not to love?”

She reached out and pulled us both into a group hug. “I felt a bit guilty,” she murmured. “Being out on the town and having fun when he’s still – you know. Knowing that you two were here feeling bad, and that for once, I wasn’t.”

“I’m glad you weren’t,” Dad said. “Feeling bad won’t bring him back sooner. I’m well chuffed for you, darling.” He kissed her cheek.

“Me, too,” I said, and kissed her other cheek.

So New Year’s was a ripping success for at least one of us. But that night, lying in bed, I couldn’t help but think that starting a new year without Sherlock couldn’t be a good omen.

I refuse to cave. I refuse to give up. I won’t lose hope. He’ll be home soon. I know it. He will.

Won’t he?

* * *


	28. 4 January

**The Blog of Eugenia H. Watson, Supercalifragalisticexpealidocious**

 _4 January_

Sherlock is home. I can’t even. I’ll be back later to explain. Must go now and revel in all the Sherlock-being-hominess.

 _later_

Okay. Phew.

He’s home. Home home home. Dad is euphoric. I am euphoric. Sherlock himself is bloody exhausted. He’s like a limp noodle. But he seems happy, like really happy to be home, and that’s not a mood we often see him in. Usually even if he is really happy, he’ll make faces and act crotchety to hide it.

This afternoon after school let out, I came out to the pavement and there was a Man In A Suit standing there in front of a shiny brown car. He wasn’t one of Mycroft’s drivers, I know all of them, and when he hires a new one he introduces him to us so we know all the drivers. And all Mycroft’s cars are black. “Miss Watson?” he said.

I was instantly on alert. “Who wants to know?”

“Stradivarius.”

I think we need a new password. This one’s just been getting a lot of use lately, it’s starting to feel not so secure. But I accepted it, and I got in the car. We started driving. We got on the A40 like we were going out to Ruislip. The driver didn’t say anything. I was starting to feel a bit panicked. Then I got a text from Dad.

 _It’s okay. Mum and I are here waiting for you._

I felt a lot better then. The driver got off the A40 and we went under a sort of tunnel and came out onto a building near an airfield. I saw lots of RAF planes and some civilian ones. He pulled up to the building and came to open the door for me to get out. Mum and Dad came rushing out to meet me. “What’s going on?”

“We don’t know. They came and got me at the A&E and Mum at King’s. Nobody’s talking.”

“They’re not from Mycroft,” I said, keeping my voice low.

Dad shook his head. “No. But they know the password.”

“Where are we?”

“RAF Northolt. It’s the main RAF base near London. Lots of military traffic.” Dad was looking around. “I have no idea what we’re doing here.”

“Dad…do you think…”

“I’m trying not to think at all, Genie. I don’t want to jump to any conclusions.”

We waited for over an hour. RAF officers came and went, and some RAMC. Dad perked up when he saw them – he’d been one of them, after all – but nobody acknowledged us. Not until another man in a suit came and got us. “Follow me,” he said. He led us out to a golf-cart sort of vehicle. We climbed on and he drove us away from the little building. We crossed what seemed like acres of concrete until we came to a little out of the way spot where there was an RAF transport plane parked. It was making powering-down noise, it had just landed.

We got off the cart. There were other people hovering nearby, most of them soldiers and men and women in uniform. Dad and I kept exchanging glances. Was Sherlock on that plane? Why would he be on an RAF plane?

A ramp at the back of the plane lowered to the ground. Activity was going on inside. “No,” Dad whispered.

Soldiers were lifting coffins. Flag-draped coffins. Three soldiers on each side, they carried them down the ramp. I clutched at Dad’s sleeve. He was shaking all over and his knees were sagging. Mum and I were half holding him up. I wished somebody would hold _me_ up because if Sherlock was in one of those coffins, I might need the help.

I looked away from the coffins, just because I couldn’t stand to see them anymore. There were people getting off the plane, coming down the staircase and onto the tarmac. As I watched, a figure appeared in the doorway and emerged. Tall and curly-haired, and for a moment I thought I was seeing things.

 _Sherlock._

He was still wearing the fatigues he’d been wearing in the video chats. He had a bag over his shoulder and was looking around. He didn’t seem to see us; we were a bit obscured by the military personnel milling about. He came down the stairs. I just stared, frozen, scarcely willing to believe it.

But it was true. He was there. He was here. He was home.

“Dad. Dad!” I yanked on his sleeve. “Look!”

He looked. Sherlock was off the stairs and coming across the pavement toward us by now, following the crowd, more or less. I felt Dad suck in a big breath. “Oh my God,” he said.

At that moment, Sherlock saw us. He didn’t smile. He didn’t wave. His face tightened up and he strode toward us with purpose. Dad took a few steps forward. Tears were already running down my face. Mum wrapped her arms around my shoulders from behind. I wanted to run to him, to jump on him and wind myself around him like a vine and never let go again, but I knew I should let Dad have his moment first. There’d be plenty of time.

Dad’s face. I’ll never forget how his face looked. Slack-jawed and wide-eyed, like he couldn’t be sure he wasn’t hallucinating, like he didn’t quite dare believe it yet because if it turned out to be a mirage then it’d be all the worse afterwards.

Sherlock didn’t take his eyes off Dad as he crossed the tarmac. Dad’s paralysis broke and he jogged forward to meet him. Sherlock didn’t break his stride, he just let his bag drop to the ground and walked right into Dad’s arms. I heard the breath huff out of both their chests as they collided, snapping shut around each other. Dad clutched his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders and a sort of choky groan came from deep in his chest. Sherlock didn’t say anything. He curled himself around Dad’s smaller body, his face pressed into Dad’s neck. I lifted my hands and held on to Mum’s arms to hold myself together. I heard her sniffing. “Mum,” I whispered, not sure what I even meant to say.

“I know, sweetheart,” she said, and I felt her kiss the side of my head.

Sherlock’s hands were clenching the fabric of Dad’s jacket like he was holding on for dear life. They just stood there for a few moments, not moving. Sherlock pulled back just far enough to grab Dad’s head in his hands and kiss his face, a half dozen short, quick kisses delivered without much attention to aim, until Dad finally got his hands up to hold him still and kiss his mouth. And that was some kiss. It went on long enough that I started feeling like a creeper, but then they separated and just stayed still, foreheads together and eyes shut, for a few more beats.

“John,” I heard Sherlock say. That was all. But that one word had a lot going on underneath it. He kissed Dad’s forehead one more time, then looked over at me. His face broke into a big smile, his real smile, and that was when I sort of lost it.

I pulled away from Mum and just ran at him. I jumped up like a little kid and got my legs around him and hung off his shoulders while I squished him as hard as I could. I may have been impeding his breathing. He staggered back a step from the impact and then hugged me back. “Sherlock,” I sort of half-sobbed, half-yelled.

“Genie,” he said, setting me down on my feet without letting me go. “Good to see you, too.”

“You…you…wanker!” I exclaimed, smacking him on the arm.

“Genie!” Dad said, sticking close to Sherlock’s side and lacing their fingers together.

“He is a wanker and a…a…cretin! You left me in New York all by myself and got yourself kidnapped and stuck with a bunch of Evil Overlords and you _missed Christmas!_ ”

“I’m afraid she’s right, John. I am a wanker.”

“I’ve been saying that for years,” Mum said, walking up for her turn. She hugged Sherlock tight; he could only hug her back with one arm because Dad wouldn’t let go of him.

He looked around at all the three of us, a strange expression on his face. “I’m…I’m quite…” He cleared his throat and sagged, like he was giving up the ghost. “God, I missed you all.” We all piled back on him. Family hug. I had both arms around his waist and I hung on as hard as I could, my face pressed against his chest, feeling like I might cry because everything was okay now, it’d all be fine because Sherlock was home. My father was home.

Dad stared up at him like he was still waiting for him to vanish in a puff of smoke. “I can’t believe you’re really here,” he said, his free hand lifting to touch Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock grasped Dad’s hand. “I assure you, I am really here, and I’m bloody exhausted. Can we get out of this Godforsaken place?”

“Yes,” Dad said, grinning a little giddily by now. “Let’s…oh. Blast. We don’t have a car. D’you suppose those goons who picked us up would give us a lift?”

“Um…John, I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” Mum said. I followed her eyes across the tarmac and there, parked a few hundred yards away, was Mum’s car.

We didn’t even bother wondering about it. We hoofed it as fast as we could to the car and climbed in. Dad and Sherlock got in the back. Sherlock practically crumpled up against Dad the minute he was seated. I twisted around in my seat, afraid to take my eyes off him for more than a second.

“Sherlock, are you hungry? Do you want to stop somewhere for something to eat?” Mum asked as she started the car.

“I just want to go home, Grace,” Sherlock said, tucking his head down on Dad’s shoulder. Dad put both arms around him and held him, his fingers combing through Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock sighed, a long deep sigh like he was sliding into a warm bath after being out in the cold for months. His eyes closed and his whole body sort of melted, the tension leaking out of it. I watched them as Mum got us back on the road, heading for home. Sherlock opened his eyes a little and saw me looking. He extended one hand forward and I took it and held on to it the whole way home.

Mycroft was already there, of course. Sherlock actually seemed – well, not glad, exactly, but not pissed off to see him. The extent of their brotherly greetings was a handshake and a nod. Mum took Sherlock’s duffel bag and started unloading it. The first thing she pulled out was his coat. “Oh, yay!” I said. “The coat survives!”

Sherlock smiled. “I confess I had no idea what was in that bag. They just handed it to me as I got off the plane.”

“It looks like it’s the clothes you were wearing when you disappeared,” Mum said.

“Don’t be daft, Grace. I didn’t disappear, such a thing violates the laws of physics. I simply wasn’t where I was meant to be.”

“Where were you?” Dad asked. He still had this sorta-dazed look behind his eyes, and he was still semi-compulsively touching Sherlock.

“Alaska.”

The answer came so swift and certain that we were all a little taken aback. “Alaska?” I repeated. “Were there polar bears?” I blurted out, the first question that popped into my head.

Sherlock shot me a wry glance. “I wasn’t bivouacking in an igloo, Genie.”

“Jesus, come on, sit down,” Dad said, pulling Sherlock over to the couch. Mum was now puttering around the kitchen. Tea, no doubt. Cures all ills. Sherlock sort of flopped down in an untidy heap. Dad sat next to him, holding his hand. Mycroft perched elegantly on the edge of a side chair. I sat on Sherlock’s other side. “Alaska?”

He nodded. “Believe it or not, an underground base. Very confusing provenance. I was unable to determine who built it or when. The people I was with were of varying nationalities and affiliations. The whole situation was – fascinating, actually.”

Dad shook his head. “We’ve been here, fearing for your life, dreading bad news, missing you like crazy, and to you it was _fascinating?_ ”

“John, don’t take on so,” Sherlock said. “I feared for my own life for most of my stay.”

“Just most of it?” I asked. “How did you get away? What was on the flash drive?”

“Oh, it reached you. Excellent. And you passed it on to Mycroft?”

“It’s safe,” Mycroft said.

“I don’t think we’ll be needing it,” Sherlock said. “But it’s a useful backup plan.”

“How did you get them to release you?” Dad asked, quieter.

“How do you know I didn’t just escape?”

Dad gave him a look. “Their drivers came and collected us. You were on an RAF plane. How stupid do you think I am?”

“Quite right. My apologies. As to how I managed to secure my freedom, well – I knew I couldn’t escape. So my only option was to make myself indispensable. They couldn’t dispose of me if they’d need me again.”

Dad’s hand clenched on Sherlock’s a little. I saw it. “You agreed to work with them, didn’t you?”

Sherlock met his eyes, a sort of beseeching look in his own. “John. I had no choice. The price for my release was some of my time given back to them.”

“How much of your time?” Dad’s jaw was tight.

“Two weeks a year. At their discretion. But I’m to receive one week’s notice.”

Dad relaxed a little. “Well – I suppose that isn’t so bad.”

“Unfortunately the weeks need not be contiguous. They may require a day here, three days there, and so forth. The week’s notice always applies.”

“And you got them to agree to this? How?”

“By being very, very good at what they asked me to do.”

“And what was that?”

“I’m sorry. I can’t talk about it.” A little trepidation crept into Sherlock’s eyes. “You know it pains me to keep anything from you, John. But this silence was imposed upon me. I’ve discovered that having a family one actually cares about may have unforeseen rewards, but it also has unfortunate consequences. Leverage being foremost among them.”

He didn’t need to spell it out for us. His “hosts” had used us to force Sherlock’s hand. He’d keep his silence and comply with their requirements or harm might come to us. Dad’s face softened. He put his hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck and drew him close to press a kiss into the side of his head.

Sherlock looked at him. “No,” he murmured. “Don’t ever think that.”

Mycroft harrumphed. “I’ll just keep that flash drive safe, then?”

“Yes, please,” Sherlock said, not taking his eyes off Dad’s. “And you’re not to look at its contents, is that understood?”

For once, Mycroft seemed to understand the necessity of Sherlock’s request. “Very well.” He got up. “Sherlock, I imagine you and your husband might wish to spend some time alone together soon. I’d like to offer you the use of the house in the Cotswolds.”

Sherlock looked up at him. “May we go tomorrow?”

Mum and I shared a smirky little look. Clearly Dad wasn’t the only one who’d been pining over the past month. Dad looked surprised. “If you wish,” Mycroft said.

“John?”

“That’d be lovely,” Dad said, quietly.

Mycroft nodded. “I’ll send a car for you at noon.”

“I may just sleep until then,” Sherlock said, yawning.

Mycroft showed himself out. Mum handed tea around. Sherlock was still lolling on the couch, his head tipped back and his legs sprawled. “I can’t wait to get out of these infernal clothes. What do they make these fatigues out of, sandpaper?”

“We’ll burn them,” Dad said. He smiled down at him, then all at once his face pinched in a little and his lower lip trembled. “Sherlock,” he rasped.

Sherlock lifted a hand to Dad’s face. “I know,” he said. He drew Dad down into his arms and Dad hid his face in Sherlock’s chest. I got up and went into the kitchen with Mum. We knew a private moment when we saw one. I heard Dad sniffling a bit as I left.

Mum put the teacups in the sink and braced her hands on the countertop for a moment. “God,” she said.

“I know, right?” I leaned my butt against the counter at her side. “I feel sort of spinny.”

“I hope this is over.”

“I don’t trust these people he’s supposed to be working with now. Even if I knew who they bloody were.”

“I don’t either. But I’m sure Sherlock doesn’t trust them any more than we do.”

“It’s just – I can’t believe he’s really back.” Sherlock appeared in the kitchen doorway. He exchanged a glance with Mum.

“I’d better ring the lab,” she said, heading out. She squeezed his arm as she passed.

Sherlock cocked his head to one side. “You all right, crumpet?”

Hearing his pet name for me made me feel a bit wobbly. “Compared to what?” I said.

“Good point. I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed, myself. I find that I’m in an odd, strange situation.”

“What’s that?”

“I think I need something.”

“What, tea? The water’s still hot, I think.”

He shook his head, smiling a bit at my tiresome obtuseness. He came forward and pulled me into a tight hug, bowing his cheek down on the top of my head. I grinned and hugged him back. “Needed a hug, huh?” I said.

“Not exactly. I needed a hug from my daughter.”

I swallowed past the ginormous lump in my throat. “Did your little sabbatical turn you into a big mushball? Because it’s freaking me out a little.”

He chuckled deep in his chest. I felt it beneath my cheek. “If I am feeling uncharacteristically sentimental I think it might be understandable given my recent experience. Don’t worry, it’ll pass soon.”

“Good. I don’t think I could take Huggy!Sherlock all the time.” That wasn’t true, of course. If he stayed huggy it would be brilliant and I’d give him as many hugs as he cared to take. But he was right. It would pass.

He drew back and looked down at me. “I hope it’s okay with you, that your father and I are going away tomorrow.”

Frankly, it was a little bit not okay. He’d just gotten back and here he was, going away again. I just wanted to sit him in a chair and make him not move for a few days. I’d bring him books and food and whatever else he wanted, just as long as I could be certain that he would stay in that spot. This was of course a silly notion, but I did want him around. On the other hand, I got it. They were married, they were flat-out mad for each other, they’d probably both been gothic-heroine pining this whole month and then the whole “might never see each other again” aspect had to amp up the whole thing to eleven. They needed some time alone, like with more urgency than Sherlock wanted time with me.

“It’s okay,” I said, because part of being grown-up is just squaring up and taking it when things are a bit not okay.

Sherlock was not fooled. Why did I think he would be? But he’d take my word, because he knew I was trying to be adult about it and not throw a tantrum and cling to his leg like a three-year-old. “All right, then. It won’t be long, and when we get back you and I will go somewhere for the day, just us. Fair enough?”

“Fair enough.”

“And now I am a bit peckish, I think. Let’s see what’s in the fridge. I think I’ve got some catching up to do. Fill me in on how things are going with Mr. Lancaster, won’t you?”

So Sherlock flailed around the kitchen for a few minutes until Dad came back (looking a little red-eyed but composed), sat him down and took over, making some sandwiches. Mum returned from her office and we all sat round and briefed Sherlock on what had been going on in his absence. He couldn’t tell us what he’d been doing, so we’d fill that void with the minutiae of our normal lives.

After an hour or so it started feeling normal. But Sherlock was fading fast. Lord knew how long he’d been traveling to get home to us, or how long it had been before that since he slept. So he and Dad got up and we all traipsed through the lounge to the door of 221. Dad hugged me goodnight, then he and Sherlock went through to their place, arms slung about each other, and shut the door behind them.

I sighed. “I don’t know what to do with myself now,” I said.

Mum put her arm around me. “Let’s watch some crap telly and have ice cream.”

“God, yeah.”

We didn’t even use bowls. We just handed the carton back and forth and ate out of it with spoons. It wasn’t even late, only nine o’clock. I didn’t pay much attention to the telly. I was here with my mum, snug as a bug in a rug, and my dads were likely asleep in the next flat, together as they are always meant to be.

All was right with the world.

For now, anyway.

* * *

 _Genie's Blog will now be going on hiatus for awhile. Not saying there will never be more entries, but I'm going to call this one complete for the time being._


	29. 8 January

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, a new blog entry. I can't promise there'll be more, this is a bit of a one-off, but there might be! Subscribe either to this story (or to me as an author) so you don't miss updates.
> 
> You can follow me on tumblr at madlori.tumblr.com.

8 January

Well, it’s a much happier new year now, that’s for damn sure.  All is well here in the Watson-Holmes-Pepperidge household, despite the bloody awful weather which has precluded my wearing the brilliant new suede boots I bought myself as a present for not losing my mind over the last month.

Dad and Sherlock came back from the Cotswolds yesterday afternoon, looking glowy and happy, hardly able to keep their hands off each other.  I caught Dad palming Sherlock’s arse in the kitchen last night when they were making tea!  Look, I’m thrilled they’re so mad for each other, but times and places.  I’m sixteen over here, can you not molest each other over tea?  It’s...unseemly.  Do they not know that we’re British?  Decorum!

Mum’s even looking a little starry-eyed.  She’s seen Greg twice since New Year’s Eve, and last night he came over for dinner, supposedly to see Sherlock, but you’d never know it for all the (lack of) attention he paid him.  I got my stealth on when she was seeing him to the door and they kissed as he was leaving.  They kissed rather a lot, actually.  Turns out my stealth wasn’t quite as on as I thought, because as she was coming up the stairs she said “Get a good look, Eugenia?”  I made a little “eep” noise from my hiding spot behind the coat cupboard door, but she wasn’t fussed.  She was, however, a little concerned.

“Is this weird for you, luv?  Me...doing...uh, that?”

“What, snogging your boyfriend?”

She blinked at me.  “Is he that, do you think?”

“I think he is, yeah.  And no, it isn’t weird.  If I can deal with Dad and Sherlock with hands on bums, I can handle a few snogs.  Anyway, he’s dreamy.”

She smiled and blushed.  “He is, a bit.”

I put my hands on my hips.  “So, do we need to have the talk?  Things may be different from the last time you were dating.  What was that, seventeen years ago?”

“Ha ha ha.  And to think that I hoped my daughter would be precocious and have a sense of humor.  It’s a curse, I tell you, a curse.”  She kissed my forehead as she went by.

Today was my last day of holiday before the new school term starts, so I was going to sleep in, but other people had different ideas.  I got woken up by a knock on my door at 8 am.  “God, Mum, let me sleep.”

“Genie?”

I sat up.  “Sherlock?  You can come in.”

He pushed the door open a crack, presumably in case I was only semi-clothed, but I was under the duvet so it was fine.  “Are you awake?”

“I am now.  What’re you doing?  What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” he said, coming in the rest of the way.  “Come on, then.  Get dressed.  We’re going out.”

“We?”

“You and me.”

“Not Dad?”

“He’s at work.  I did promise you an outing, just us, did I not?”

I grinned.  An outing with just me and Sherlock sounded like exactly what I needed.  I was up and dressed in record time.  Sherlock was waiting, coat and scarf on.  “Bundle up,” he said, fussing a bit.

“God, you’re such a dad,” I teased him.  He backed off immediately, looking horrified.  “But that’s okay!” I hurried to add.  “It’s...nice!”

“I am not nice.”

“You are to me.  But feel free to keep being an arsehole to everyone else, it makes me feel special to be exempt.  Where are we going?”

“Wherever you like.”

“You don’t have a secret agenda?”

“No.”  He looked away, shifting a bit.  “Genie, I...I missed you.  While I was gone.  Your father was rather at me all weekend that I had to tell you...things...so I’ve promised him I’d make the attempt.  I’d just like the spend the day with you, whatever you’d like to be doing.”  He looked so mortified to be making such a declaration that I almost felt bad for him.  Would have done, if I wasn’t so overwhelmed with feels.

I threw my arms around him and hugged him.  “I missed you too, so much.”  He hugged me back.  “I love you, Sherlock,” I said.  For the first time, I wished I could call him by something other than his name.  

He didn’t respond, but I felt him kiss my head.  “All right, all right,” he said, going all gruff and stepping back.  “Enough of this nonsense.  Choose a destination.”

“Can we go to Forbidden Planet?”

“As you wish.”

I soon discovered that paternal guilt at having been kidnapped for a month was an excellent way to get loads of new stuff.  I cleaned up in the Doctor Who aisle.  Sherlock bought me a t-shirt, a new TARDIS mug, some figurines and a metal lunchbox with Daleks on it.  I could probably have got more, but I started to feel guilty at taking advantage.  We hauled my loot into a cab, then Sherlock took me to tea at Fortnum & Mason, where I was vastly underdressed.  “So, what are these things Dad wants you to tell me?” I asked, stuffing macarons into my face.

He fidgeted in his chair a bit.  “I am to express myself.  I’m not entirely sure what that means.”

“Tell me how you’re feeling, I suppose.”

He made a face.  “It’s tiresome.”

“Anyway, Dad’s one to talk.  He’s not exactly Mr. Open Feely Guy.”

“For which I give daily thanks.”

I smirked at him.  “What, you don’t want Dad going all mushy gushy on you?”

He rolled his eyes.  “That is not the topic I wish to discuss.”

“Then get on with it.”

He sat back and folded his hands on his lap.  “I am concerned that you are carrying some guilt for the manner in which I was abducted.”

Well, that put me right off my petit fours.  I just sat there for a minute, the half-chewed cake going like sawdust in my mouth.  I stalled by cleverly drinking tea to wash it down.  “Guilt?”

“Yes.”

“Why, because they used me as a stick to beat you with and make you go with them?  Why would I feel guilty about that?” I blurted.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  “If it hadn’t been you, it would have been somebody else.  Your father, probably.”

“Is that supposed to help?  It was me, Sherlock.  If you didn’t care about me…”

“It wouldn’t have changed anything.  If they hadn’t had leverage, they’d have taken me by force.  This only meant I went quietly.”  He leaned forward, clasped hands on the table.  “Genie, there was a time in my life when they would have had no leverage at all.  There was nothing and nobody that I cared about, apart from the work.  At the time, I thought my situation was ideal.  I had no emotional connections, no impediments to my great calling.  But then I met your father, and then you and your mother came along.  I won’t claim that I never miss being unfettered, but I…”  He hesitated, harrumphing a bit.  “I would not go back.”

I nodded.  “That’s nice and everything, but...you can’t make me stop feeling guilty.  I’m going to feel how I feel.  That’s my business.”

Sherlock looked a bit lost.  “I don’t know how to help you cope with that.”

“Well, that isn’t your job.  I’m a big girl.”

“You are sixteen.  You’re still a child, Genie.”

I shrugged.  “You’ve never treated me like a kid.  Warn me if you’re going to start now.”

The corner of his mouth twitched.  “No.”

I watched his face.  He was fiddling with his teacup and tearing a tiny sandwich into ever-tinier pieces.  Was he trying to get down to sandwich atoms?  “Who were they?” I asked.  I didn’t really mean to.  It just sort of blorted out of me.

Sherlock didn’t react at first.  “Who were who?” he finally said, drawing out the last word, like he was reading Poe or something.

“No, don’t do that.  You know what I’m talking about.”

He finally met my eyes.  “I can’t talk about that, Genie.  No amount of cajoling or guilt or the puppy eyes you so effectively deploy on John will make me tell you things that may endanger you.  No force on earth will cause me to put you in jeopardy.”

“God, I was right, you are such a dad.”

“You take that back.”

I snorted.  It was meant to be derisive and dismissive, but instead I just inhaled a crumb of macaron and had to cough for a few moments.  “Just tell me…”  I coughed again.  “You promise me you’ll tell me when you’re leaving again?”

He nodded.  “I will.  As soon as I know, you will.”  He sat back, and the topic seemed to be closed.  For now.   “Now, then.  Pray update me on the situation with your mother and Detective Lestrade.  That was conspicuously omitted from our conversations the other night.”

I grinned.  “Oh, well!  They had a posh New Year’s Eve date, and Mum looked like a supermodel, and they’ve been snogging all over the flat and all over London, for all I know.”

He hmphed.  “A succinct, if unsatisfying, summary.”

“What more do you want?  I don’t follow them about, you know.”

He blinked.  “Do you think it’s serious?”

“How should I know?  You could ask her.”

“Feels odd.”

“If it feels odd now, imagine if she marries him.  He’ll be at family dinners.  What if he moves in?  You’ll be living with him!”

Sherlock looked aghast at this prospect.  “Such situations seem purely the province of wacky television comedies.”

“Like our lives aren’t already wacky television comedies.”

“Would you like it if she married him?” Sherlock asked, looked a bit dumfuzzled by the entire topic.

I shrugged.  “I’d like Mum to be happy.  It’s not like I’m dying on the vine for want of a third dad.  But I’m off to university in a couple of years, aren’t I?  It’s not like I’ll be living at home with you lot forever.”

“No, I don’t suppose you will.”  Sherlock turned his teacup around and around.  “I don’t like to think of you leaving home.  Seems so unnecessary.”

“Well, if I go to university in the city, I could still live at home.  You might not be shut of me quite so fast.”

“That’s a relief.”

I crossed my arms.  “And here I thought Dad was going to be the clingy parent.”

“I live but to surprise you, Eugenia.”

We laughed together for a moment.  “Did you and Dad have a nice weekend in the Cotswolds?” I asked, more or less out of politeness.  

Sherlock got quiet.  “Yes.”  He met my eyes.  “And I appreciate your maturity about it.  It was a bit rude of me, coming home and then turning right round and leaving again.”

“I knew where you were this time.  Bit different.”

“All the same.”

“You’re welcome.  And I get it.  You wanted some time alone.”

“We don’t get a lot of that.  John is far more tolerant of my tendency towards odd schedules and inconsistent routines than anyone would expect.”

“He’d tolerate just about anything from you, don’t you know that?  Even things that would have him blowing up like Vesuvius if it were someone else.”

“He does his share of blowing up at me.”  He went quiet again.

I watched him for a moment.  “Thanks, for this.  For us going out.”

“You’re welcome.  We were having a good time in New York, weren’t we?   Before all the unpleasantness?”

“We were having a fantastic time.”

“Perhaps another trip is in order.  To wash away the bad taste of kidnappings.”

“Let’s take Mum and Dad along this time.”

Sherlock made a face.  “Nonsense.  They’ll only slow us down.”

I grinned at him and he grinned back, and it was like he’d never been away.

  



End file.
